Our Daughters Ring Something That Sounds Like Bells
They begin with sin and its hooded jaw.
They part their yellow jackets, their hems
of dust taut as chimneys. Their hesitation
like luck, sunk in buckets that churn
and churn and churn toward a firmness
we mistake for certainty.
Ode to Waterloo
I love not you but your energy
of defeat, cling-clanging like bells
on the brick, your lucky fingers
smacking of blue. What’s left
to meet but this animal panic?