In Not Unpleasant Places

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In Not Unpleasant Places

Dare we say blesséd is the fenced 

dog who never knows an open gate,


the freight train rusting on the un-switched

track, groaning forward now,


now back? How late are we really running 

if the clocks have never been wound?


Is lost lost if we've misplaced

found? Sure, the house still burns down 


if we call smoke sleep-eye and pretend

it's all a dream, but on the flip side 


of the pillow, were we awake enough to see 

coolly through the steam to what's really


licking at our door, who could even make

the bed, rouse themselves to uncradle


a single word having been singed 

by the flame of what ought to be said?



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