Things at Sunset

Things getting smaller at sunset—

But what are things?

It always happens that way.

Things are objects that don’t have names.

My face is dripping

Things are real.

It’s a sad time.

Life is real, sometimes.

This time.

It’s enough to make you cry.

And smash things.

But why?

To have pieces to pick up . . .

Oh, any number of reasons.

You go haywire.

Nothing matters when you’re mad.

At things.

At sunset.

From Ninety-Seven Poems, and previously published, in a slightly different version, in The Stuttering Priest, 1984.