Sense

Even when
Ghosts are called up from
Civil War daguerreotypes,
And those blurred and

Pictured men run after
The cornfields
To which their ends have been
Prescribed,

None of it makes sense.

A woman makes the right
Decision at the wrong time,
And finds herself
Dead in the kitchen.

Some evenings, still, I look
At my legs
And imagine them dead,
Detached,
Glowing a weird glow,
Weary of pulling me along these things.

I know it doesn't make sense.

The way an evening
Crowds around children
On the driveway:
The voices,
The dark,
The sliver of moon
That near-autumn
Evenings crave;
The joy we suppose
So close to sleep
When we no longer recall,
But remember recalling,
And the locusts
Taunt us with the
Constancy of every summer's end.

It all piles up
Out west in an
Amber stack
Of rust:

All that bone cancer;

All those
Horizons
Poured out
In last, staggering
Embraces
Over Sunday night.

It doesn't make
Anything.

We may as well
Teach our children how
To wander properly;
How to level
The eye to
The unending knife.

And no more lies about
The ends we make spiders meet.