Throat of the Beast

and it occurs to me
that I, in this field,
yelling at that needle-stick
vein-splitting, first fuck, first love
first light for a born-blind man
kind of addiction,
that while I'm knelt in this high grass,
proposing nightly
to the Nothingness which always wears Everything's little black dress,
that I might just be screaming up the neck of another beast

Stubborn Gray Twist

no, you have it wrong,
it's that, this chimney smokes like my grandma
a welcome site in the cold
the order of her house
best understood
by the cut of the mason,
the weave and true
of the bricks
which stand her up in St Paul winters
and signal the survival
of a burning.