This story shall the good man teach his son. – William Shakespeare, Henry V
A poet not of bush but bottle shop,
Just not the kind of bottle shop you think,
One in which each starry shelf is lined
With objects manifold with surfaced time.
We rhyme, he said, and where we make a sign
We cannot be consistently defined,
Oriented as we are upon the infinite.
We cannot die, we cannot die,
We who are the folding sky,
We who broken lie where all the broken bottles lie.
My latest poems to be published are “Letters to David Berman and John Hodgman,” which were published in May in the New York publication, The Awl.
Read them and weep with comedy.