"Ten first these days"

An old woman hands it off to a little girl,

the countings-down to the ends of all things.

Once was a precious, careful business but 

anymore the numbers ain’t all that big.

The bulbs can hardly wait to burn out –

the sun seems so alive as it goes down.

A rotten old fence, more lovely each spring;

folks enthralled as a ship runs aground.

An untalented pervert fumbles back to mainstream –

critics are everywhere, and so indiscreet.

We all need things we don’t know how to find;

ceilings come down afterward & watch us asleep.

Nighttime wet leaves blow through a broken church.

Birds only fly to me when I’m not outside.

And since the cure’s pretty drastic, treason

really should at least be sublime.

Banners of plastic bags caught in razor wire.

300 bucks to sign books I didn’t write.

A match made afield of heaven (Connecticut)

as a troubled screw barely kills its first tire. 

It’s not great that I dream of better things at night,

since shouting-distance is for things you can’t help.

The tasteful-plaid man needs more rye, neat – counting 

to ten first these days is not enough.