Three Poems

The High Dark

for Kevin Hart

Dark days, and when there
still was a mobile god
could it be that he
looked way down from a window seat
at all those yellow lights

perceiving them as souls?
Virtue must have been visible
in much the way that
casino fingers reveal
whoever holds the aces.

Dark days. When on
that marbled crust of troubles
our war-willing nations joust
this Boeing can enclose you,
buffet the news away.

Dark night. If you
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