down

down

we sank down beneath a dark line
and were guided by our fear into a pocket of air

we enclosed the yard
rocked the infant spiders in our arms

now my sperm swim restlessly through the ether
at all hours
in all directions

mangy, feisty boston is down
and it looks like rain

the day is like our unfinished train station's
endless, overcost erections

the sky bears down
against my spine

jackson goes to class

by way of celebrating my son's first day of [pre-]school, a few of our favorite poems. these are all good'uns for littl'uns.

'the owl and the pussycat,' by edward lear

'the giraffe,' by nikolai gumilev

'weathers,' by thomas hardy

'green grow the rashes,' by robert burns
.
.
.
and, lastly, 'the skunk,' by me

the skunk barely knows how to run away
not that he's slow, just--unafraid

he can adjust his nozzles to take careful aim
or if he's chased (a rare event), cast back a spray

that has a stink no predator with a nose can bear
be it cat or wolf or hound or--bear

but the most intimidating poison nature makes
is impotent to scare off owl or snake or--car

his second defense is for man-made terrain
camouflaged as a no-passing lane