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.