Empty submission on death arrived
writer’s desk at noon

Working quiet long hours to fill it
it should be expected soon

Entries harnessed dispatched flesh
the height of breath commands

came up to slum piled gay ash
in want of familiar gray hands

Screamed at Pushkin scolding Hughes
gave-up on own outlaw’s joke

when to play-up the dead writers to
for through who I felt that I spoke

Terry Cloth

My view of the old Ratner’s sign, where
it once went, now going when gone. Three

stories up flat asphalt sits as I did sit,
on parking lot planes, a blue-ok,

Florida, struggling, writing poems around
flies in my poems.

Each every-holiday stoked, about, tiny
pools the clear juvenile (vision) exhaust

bent eastward-south at fisher’s island-
ferry, lifted, explanations of self

its heavy carriage, its heavy remorse,
an askew dance overlooking

a risen sky-line.