Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

Tall Poems

.I.

My words
of glacial drift
meandering,
as if torn apart
from a continent
of artsy people,
homeless,
on their death march
with ashen faces
praying for
grace, so
I may lock them
away inside
my wooden chest
in order not to
mock them.


.II.

Someone said
do not knit
for a lover
until you are
sure of him.
But I knit
and purl,
knit and
purl with
two needles,
using feisty
red illusions
for yarn
and wrap their
strings around
my fingers until
the blush
on my skin
fades to
regret.