Poetry

Dangling his legs outside the plane in wind
that seems about to whip him in half at the hips,
but won’t, having split

Me & the Devil are rivals
for God’s affection.

 A short ride in the van, then the eight of us 
   there in the heat—white shirtsleeves sticking,
the women’s gloves off—fanning our faces.

Sin, thy name is this
wait—this place—
a long ways from Here
to There, from where

Black mite over the page, furious meander
    of a period untethered.
Black ant over my toes
        lifts by chambers like a lock.

Not plumes. Not plumes

from the teapot’s throat.
    But force, unseen, the space

So what if he was old enough to slough her off?
The night of her news he made an exception—

Sleep, shelter me.
Shuffle

me back into the deck
where I belong—