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by G. Nicholas Myers...

Doing the Dishes in My Boxers

They always bring me back down to this.
Picture ripples on a sandy beach, in the grainy air,
You can make out 3 shapes walking along the dune's edge.
The moon is but a dirty sliver.

Or instead, picture this earth-toned shadiness to be a scene of stone.
The 3 figures, statues. The approaching swirl of water that was
never mentioned, an upturned ridge of rock. But either way,
(And this is either/or talking) you can make out 3 shades.

The shade of the 3 figures, just barely lighter than the night sky,
Is the same as the ripples in the sand or that ridge of rock.
Of course, there is the sky, the same color as the water,
And the dirty moon and grainy sand.

Now, this dirt, this grit, is obviously the problem.
There is always the dream of her, shades of him, and this uprising.
These ripples bring me to my finest hour: midnight,
Where you will find me flying, diving, writing, or doing the dishes.

Every Even--ing Has Its Singing

Every evening has its singing--
Its necessary silence;
Unexpected chill.

Every evening has its turning--
Its closing or finishing;
Its covering up.

Every evening has its warm familiar comfort
Just before fading music leads into the fall...

Dreams like scars are curving inward at the soul
as a single spider sits on a recessed mountain range.

Every evening has its turning star;
And its disappearance--
Its plans for the wounded animal in the woods.

Every evening has its favorite magazine or book,
Its lamp just out of reach

Dope Love Bucket

Is a day-verb for
when your hair is a little longer
and you have the perfect cigar
hanging out of your mouth.
It's the explosion debit when
you're with her
and she is
the aquifer.