Wedding Bells

glad tidings

from a dusty church—

wedding bells

Evening’s Work

Prostitutes lie down

for another evening’s work—

three monks chant matins.

Dreams go up in smoke,

flying through the ragged hole

she gouged in your heart.

The buzzards keep watch

as old women dab perfume

on their sagging jowls.

innocence

swept away by tears

childhood lost

She keeps coming back,

despite the laughter of God,

to the praying place.

A paltry paycheck

brings me to my knees, while tears

stain my last dollar.

A flower closer

than my rapping at your door—

which will open first?

While she is praying,

ravens swoop down from the north

and snatch all her words.

vase of sunflowers

spilling across the table—

my house is too small