It’s hard to know what to make of such goings-on . . .
Sharp Objects Falling out of the Sky
On certain Wednesday mornings
Sharp objects from the sky
Come shearing down the sides of clouds
Like spaceships zipping by
And boulders, ashtrays, cutlery
And great meteorites
Come slashing from the heavens
—But clear up by Wednesday nights
. . . but I’ve come to expect the unexpected . . .
Be Not Ill at Ease
Around my sprockets and my spleen lurk what no doctor’s ever seen,
a plethora of arcane ills impossible to treat with pills
or pessaries, with tinctures, teas, or magic potions for disease–
not curable by overhaul of engine, tune-up, electrol-
ysis, electric shock–it’s thought by some I will infect them; not
true, though, for what seems to be feared is not contagious–
I’m just weird.
Art-Colored Glasses 