Street

He was the man with
The strange name that
No one could ever pronounce
With the stitched-together jacket and the broken
Shoes.
He was always singing some sort of lullaby,
An incantation that
Scared the children.
But I knew he was harmless,
So I would say, “Hi,”
Meeting his eyes,
And he never knew
How
To
Reply.

Poem

Your words twist and shimmer so eloquently,
So ferociously, that I know you should be good,
But I don’t get you, you poem.
Others coo over your beauty and praise your form,
But I, quite frankly, cannot see your appeal.
You’re too bizarre and too complicated. You speak about
Destiny and truth as if they were tangible things, objects that babies
Teeth upon, parcels that people carry about under their armpits,
But they’re not. They’re greater than me, you, and anything you could
Ever
Compare them to.