Befuddled
A POEM
A slow befuddled winter fly
With 747 abandon
Has trundled from my window sill
And God knows what he’ll land on.
Such geriatric flies present
A crisis to compassion:
To smear them or to leave them space
To die in their own fashion.
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Around our March balcony tonight
Fog closes its slight hand — illusive blue —
The Night the Sauerkraut Exploded
The night the sauerkraut
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