MS. Found Throttled

Dear Sir, there is a gentleman you know 
Beside me here, at Ryan’s Fourth Ward polls, 
Who goes by the cognomen Edgar Poe.

Admitted 5 pm on 3 October. 
As soon as I was able, I went over. 
Excitable . . . delirious . . . not sober. 

Saturday night commences calling, “O
Reynolds! Reynolds! Reynolds!” until say oh
Three o’clock Sunday morning, when he goes 

Into a stupor endlessly misquoted. 
Perhaps this current leads to the South Pole. 
Of course, there is no certain way . . . oh no. 

October’s War

Season of butterflies 
Colliding in mid-air
And spiraling to earth 
To smolder brightly there; 

Of noxious clouds of gnats
One can’t help but inhale, 
And army ants erupting 
Like lava from their hills;

Of humming, barbed-wire hedges
Electrified by bees, 
And grasshopper grenades 
Exploding at your feet; 

And after dark the sirens
Trembling through the night 
Of crickets crouched in crumbling 
Shelters out of sight. 

Chandelier

An errant piece of chandelier 
I almost missed it was so clear
Lay in the road this morning,
Like a giant crystal tear 
A cloud had brushed away the night before.

 
I picked it up and held it to the light 
To see if I could strike 
A rainbow, but all I 
Saw was a shard of sky
Multiplied a dozen times
Hanging in the sun on the other side.