from Clangings
First I denied the no-seeums speckling
my dead boy. Over here, they called.
I overheard there. My shoulder thawed,
felt fine. I exhaled my unson’s song.
Then came blame. Used up, I sued it. 
Anger management? I nail-gunned
flies all over drywall. My tantrum
plucked a geshrunken dish; threw it, it
pitched back, thew! Pawed hardball,
return me his birthdays. I’ll be prompt,
promise, to Commencement. Unkempt?
I’ll kempt. But worms don’t dicker a deal…
I resigned my shift; I mean, took a break.
Blanket our dog wouldn’t even adopt,
I laid off apostrophes to the teardrop.
His name sank, forsook all heartache—
no more pantomime palominos.
If you can’t stage miracles, curtain.
It’s not like you become Adam, even
whistling to the herd in widow grass.
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