Two Poems

pluto's depression

Let's take my debt and your debt

and combine it. It would be the color

of a boardwalk moonstone,

cheap and unafraid.

It would have the same scent

as our sheets. You scathe, 

I scathe around you

in the shape of the lake.

You have to walk yourself out

of someone else's guilt.

You have to draw a new door

over the old one to leave.

I write money, money, money

until I smell it on my hands.

Later, anvil was the word

that I was searching for.



What I'm in, it started

in the middle

it got my attention

and returned me back.

A piece of it lodged in me

a piece of me lodged in its mechanics

entranced by repetition

white violets drawn on cotton

in the dead of morning.

Almost in the room of its

jealousy, the cradled 

ocelot it's made me

not fast at all but frantic

to be not near itself