A House Breathes Through Its Bones
A house breathes through its bones,
Its summits sit like sentries;
Though rafters decompose-
It never denies entry.
Its ghosts lie in their beds,
Soft earth beneath their memory;
The shutters firmly closed-
The past seen only dimly.
Anti-Love Poem #2
Ever since Romeo and Juliet
Repulsed lovers have considered suicide
As just an offshoot of unrequited love-
Even if the love was refused from the start
Or only existed as a delusion in the mind of the deluded.
I suggest that in modern life
What with plastics, antibiotics, and all this stuff
We have other options to the suicide-only impulse