It is here you’ll stay.
I have to donate you—
and don’t lay blame: you were the one
who became a relic, galumphed
into the dismal swamp of old desire.
You are a specimen, so don’t insist
you aren’t exotic.

Sitting in her garden
I resolve to reflect a positive life outlook.
I begin a spiritually affirming list poem.
I like fish swimming in a pond.
Birds are good—they sing a bit.
Ducks are decorative but dumb.

Othello (Moor), Iago (scorned)
go at it in a Turkish war
but poor Othello doesn’t know
Iago’s out to get him so

The dreams
webbed and flapping, with beaks like orange shoehorns,
suffuse my head;