I’ve nothing against
Rich people but give me time
To do my research
I’ve nothing against
Rich people but give me time
To do my research
When she was younger
The earth seemed pretty damned old
And not without faults
What this poem is
Beyond so called poetry
Is three lines of time
Walls are hard to find
But pictures hang everywhere
Just above the floor
Decided one shelf
One twohundredfootlong shelf
Might hold enough books
Manufacturing
Solid objects is better
Than anxiety
It’s the death of death
In polite conversation
Ushered out by wine
Other migrations
May be viewed at eye level
Though rarely our own
Nothing to see here
Just the last vestiges of
Rationality
Nothing left to do
But the stuff on the right side
Intimidates me