Today I see why I did not come
around to poetry until these
autumn hours. Peace and quiet.
peace and quiet, deafening thickets
turn words into nocturne bugs in scurry.
All forms of life barely animate.
Vampires feast from a bowl given
to forbearance and kindness. And ducks are
supposed to be comedic but let not a drake’s
fat wacky waddle construct
a daft distortion. Swarms ravenous,
batty, nature’s hand twisted
them to be; oh how vicious this earth.