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 The Stuttering Priest, 1984. See also the slightly different version that appears in Ninety-Seven Poems, also 1984.