In May


All life is shamelessly on display
in halter-tops, myrtle blooms, 
as if bared flesh were normal, erupting
spirea, impudent smooth thighs; 
sober grey magnolia branches break out
in sudden tulip truths like jokes of which
every punch line is protean Eros.

            Why not come outside and play?
            Shamelessly on display
            forsythia and daffodil
            are so yellow that they will
            fill your dark cup up with sun;
            young bodies ripe for fun
            might do much to persuade
            even you to join the parade.

Still, in May I’m less happy than I might 
be not because it’s the month when even 
teenagers look innocent as new shoots, 
green rising up the grass like fever, 
when lovers hover on tiptoe and lean 
runners grin as they grimace by; not 
because it’s the month when men fold their arms 
and chat over mowers on Saturday 
mornings, surveying suburbia with 
satisfaction.  
                     May has nothing to do 
with it really; May’s just a screen time 
breezes through searching for festivals, 
processions whose music is a tender 
energetic march; it’s dripping locust 
trees rejoicing in birds, choice month for 
offensives and memorials.  Though May’s 
merely a menu, not a meal, yet 
even for the happy to be sad in
florid yellow barefaced May is sad.

“In May” first appeared in Denver Quarterly



Blue Flu


A banker found naked in a ditch.
Surplus suspects, mostly rich.
The coroner grouses, “What next?” 
The missing nose leaves him perplexed.
The fever makes my knees go soft.
My whole spine shudders when I cough.
Every interviewee is a liar. 
In fifteen years I can retire. 
The woman in my life isn’t in it. 
A crime with no one on whom to pin it
Isn’t exactly what I need.
I’d pay cash for one decent lead.
Now the Commissioner’s on my case;
Blow-dried reporters in my face.
My partner sulks behind a frown.
God, these walls are a vile brown.
My woolly mind is closing down.
In her pied-à-terre I met the niece,
A tease, coquette, a brazen piece
Who inveigled me loquaciously 
And spoke almost salaciously
Then stretched herself bodaciously,
Dead sure I’d give her a pass
Once I glimpsed that heart-shaped ass.
The noseless banker was a crook.
Money everywhere so he took.
He bought his cocaine where he shouldn’t.
Perhaps he had to pay and couldn’t.
The niece spent weekends in his bed.
His wife despised him, now he’s dead.
I wake at three to car alarms.
The city writhes between the arms 
Of suburbs with clean streets . . . then farms
With lambs, broad fields of wheat and oats,
A river full of river boats, 
Then mountains swell in frozen motion,
Then comes the beach, at last the ocean.
My lungs feel queer, so do my bowels.
The floor is thick with sweaty towels.
At six I struggle to my feet.
My head’s a sun of sizzling heat. 
Bad dreams fade in polluted air.
The bathroom’s blinds, a watty glare.
The mirror mocks me while I shave.
I know I’m powerless to save,
A detective who can’t detect.
What do I serve and whom protect?


“Blue Flu” first appeared in Chiron Review