The Black Hat

First there will be a shooting rampage
in Alabama,
shortly thereafter in Germany,
after that there will be men oiling instruments
in their garages and crawlspaces,

whatever tunnels of flesh they can
carve out inside themselves,
moving plaque and cholesterol to the side
as though clearing a space
for a woman to sit down, a surprise guest

you would like everyone to know you
are entertaining, but ought to be content
with the truth that she is there.

One person will be killed on the highway
randomly, some others will be shot
because they were waiting on their porch
for something to happen,

everyone else should have known they had
it coming. The grass in the yard tipping
over in a breeze, pea stone driveway
crumbling under tires, azaleas pink

in this early spring. In ten minutes
the dog will stop barking, a rabbit
will move finally, and the preacher
at the door will take off his black hat

before stepping in through the door.

The Hawk Card

It’s just about night
and I pray to a face
a mirror frames.

The old man in a room
wearing a suit lightly
dusted with cigarette ash.

A nine year old boy
sneaks in to take handfuls
of mortar dust.

A plastic skin
around a powder of saltines,
ash and dust and food.

Ashtray of dark green
cut glass, heavy and clear
and empty.

a vein of cellophane
beside it, gilded edge
of cigarette wrapper.

A crust of life around
the dish in the sink.
Pipe of broken laughter.

The day closed around
the boy like a hand
holding a mouse.

Blood and water
and claws, singing
I won, I won.