I: Ascription

 

i ascribe meaning to moments

you: to dice and bones and chance

 

what did the tea leaves say this morning?

 

lies are coincident to actuality—

the bees are disappearing

 

do you take yours

with cream or sugar?

 

one scoop

or two?

 

 

II: i prayed a Novena

 

i prayed a Novena

 

you don’t come around much

anymore

 

squirrels are the least interesting
creatures in the yard.

 

i spend so much time waiting

 

water boils

the phone rings

the postman comes and goes

 

everything happens eventually,

says the praying mantis,

hungrily

 

 

III: Jicama stick salads

 

winter beaches

frozen sunset

ice chimes

 

tea, watered down more than it is already

cancer-survivor relatives

seekers of good fortune (read: lost change)

 

cinnamon jicama stick salads with maple syrup

and rye whiskey; French pressed coffee

cereal for dinner

 

midnight; spring-time shower trysts

walking. home—not a place, but

fingers grasping fingers

 

 

IV: on poems written in the middle of the night

 

he said, don’t

read too much

into all this

 

i’ll tell you

when you

need to know

 

most times,

i just like the way

the words sound together

 

 

C. L. Carol

C.L. Carol tries to be a good human. But, humans being humans, he’s known to fall short, stumble into a local haunt and spend time ruminating. Sometimes he writes. More often, he thinks. Diane Wakoski once likened one of his poems to Yeats, but the poem is lost and the story has now been relegated to fable. He lives in Northern Michigan with his wife, Emily, and their daughter, Berkleigh. Companion to cats. Friendly gentleman. Terrible golfer.

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