No Oaks Stand
Old brick-and-iron brewery, borders invaded
by brushes of fennel, by wildgrass
home to shipping containers,
to refrigerated units, fans spinning
only when the southerlies blow
the wildgrass doesn’t mind
my father worked here
my father died here
and the grasses grow on, grow tall
as the brewery sinks, and the wind whistles
I pray for strong roots and liquid head,
I pray to become the grass
Drown Mondays
The best way I found
to catch my seven-twenty train
is to miss the seven-o-five, be late
and grow a glut of yin
from the corpses of yangs
drown mondays to breathe tuesdays
but I nibbled cake and kept it too;
I caught the seven-o-five
and the hands fell off the clock,
fell off my wristwatch