A chorus of suicides, old relations worn out
by marching in place, a whining
off an icy bridge, three ODs . . . no, four.
Four, how: the dead pile up since I’m not done,
not done rasping them faceless, not nearly done
amid this shifting about, this clattering,
good bones grated, ground, sifted
for a tone-deaf daily bread.
Such Faith as Is Available
Above my house, student pilots
fly circles, figures. I don’t mind
the low, day-long buzz. They’re learning--
I believe this--how not to crash.