Poems
The Hypochondriac Flies to Mexico
The plane is sick. Feverish chills
shudder through its aluminum skin.
The hatch hums closed, a stopper
in a test tube of plague. En route to takeoff,
the pilot’s nasal drawl, “Thank you for
The End of the World
The persistent cough, the routine procedure,
the congenital defect, the faulty wiring,
the fire in the starboard engine, the force majeure,
the mistress in the city, the last spirited thrust,
the
Self-Portrait as the Middle-Aged Fool
You’ve come a long way
past quotidian drunkenness, past caring
whether you left the stove on, the whereabouts
of your father’s deer rifle, loaded
with one in the chamber. No reason to hurry home
past quotidian drunkenness, past caring
whether you left the stove on, the whereabouts
of your father’s deer rifle, loaded
with one in the chamber. No reason to hurry home
Finch Station
After a long day, you’d think we’d drag our feet.
But we’re all elbows, jostling to catch the next bus home.
But we’re all elbows, jostling to catch the next bus home.
The boy and girl embracing near the stairs
aren’t in any hurry. Their stillness makes
aren’t in any hurry. Their stillness makes
A sampling of poems from The Good News about Armageddon, as well as work my previous collection Primer on the Hereafter.