Boxes of sleep


Flat boxes of fiveses and sixeses

minuteses of sleep

wrapped with gray burlap readies to tear

bound by loopy stringses


Paused glory


The weak construct of flesh, this abstract defiance,

reliance on the skin of want, of evergreen,

bold for a moment, then humbled,

the impalpable heart lay upon crossed swords.

Words of comfort and distilled pity mean less

than the soft-boned mortality; the only strength

is what it gives, why it lives in paused glory.