The tower is not a phallus, it’s the iron tongue
of the Earth which tastes the void in the skies.
Tell me that any heart is softer than hers. Tell me
that she doesn’t feel as much for me as anyone.
Her gray bones are stronger than God’s, but you
go ahead and love your ghost. I love only the stark
cleanness of winter wafting from la dame de fer’s
form, the taste of iron on skin. The forgiving glint
of pure metal aching for the sky, pointing away
from the dirt we will rot our lives out upon.
Sports Cars in the Fast Lane
Bald men own the best cars. They don’t need
to worry about the wind mussing their hair.
The taste of exhaust in their throats, the smell
of yesterday screaming from the pavement
as they drive five miles under the speed limit
in the fast lane. I never blamed my mother
for passing down such a thick head of hair,
but gray don’t pay for a convertible.
I don’t even own a decent pair of sunglasses,
but I can squint with the best of them. Maybe
I should shave my head, buy a leather jacket.
Maybe I’ve grown distant from the light meant
to blow through that space where hair should be.
The life draining from your eyes as you glare
your disappointment in any given direction;
I’m sorry to tell you no one is meeting
your stare. They’re all too busy wondering
if the sky is blue because the ocean is blue,
or if it was something someone said once
that shouldn’t have been forgotten. Any lamp
can make a home warmer than a fireplace but
you must have the correct shade without
considering the obvious connotations. Where
do you think the truth is buried? If you dig
in regular intervals, will you find it? Or simply
ruin your lawn. You can always tell people
you’ve adopted burrow owls. They’re
endangered. Anyone would respect that.