Repeal; With The Georgics’ Last Word
The abandoned mansion
from the time of Temperance,
what it must have held:
hair bobbed short,
cocktails poured tall,
not just drunkenness
but the double sin
of deception too.
Sometimes the best we can do
is not pretend to be
other than we are.
So the house seems to say,
allowing itself to finally fall,
letting down the white walls.
Better to rot outright,
return lot to field,
render lumber down to dirt—
the closest to cleanliness we get.
With The Georgics’ Last Word
The graveyard gives the town its only green.
The graveyard, and the vacant lots.
Instead of dreaming houses to be built,
the possibility I could see
is of woods filling in again, returning.
And maybe I should have felt guilt once,
when I made love on the grass of a graveyard.
Though I was happy, lying there,
with our bodies, our living, and looking
up at the leaves.
Leaves have been what I wanted most,
on long walks in heat, when I kept moving forward
by thinking only, purely, of the next few trees,
a future that I’d fade into, fanned out as