Steve's Flashlight


I ask Steve if he thinks that the world
is more inclined to light
or darkness.  That’s easy, he says,
darkness.  I offer him a flashlight 
to help him see in his moon-free 
evening of a life.  He refuses it, 
says that the batteries will go.  
Then where will he be?  

He’s like a chalkboard,
the word NO written 500 times
across it.  I must admit
that more than half the time
he’s proven right.  I say Look,
here comes the sun. He says sooner
or later it will swell and devour us.  
It’s true.  I saw it on Cosmos.  

Perhaps he sees some sweetness 
in the approaching ruin.  
He’s tasted it, gets out of bed 
seizing the day, a beautiful day,
finches bounding down to coneflowers,
day that must end too soon.   






Giant Hogweed


You’re walking out
in the country, nearly
bump into a huge plant, 
maybe fourteen feet tall.  
A castle, you want to enter it.
The roof is a flower
five feet wide.  A single
touch

and your skin blisters,
looks like balloons grow
out of your bones.  Get it
in your eyes and sight
gets sealed up for good.  

You could have admired it 
from a distance,
but you chose to enter.

Tragedy pops up.  
Like a summer storm.
Sudden.  Heavy rain 
pummels you.  Run.
You can’t escape.