Friday, February 24, 2017


the last time
you held the warm weight 

of a nickel 
in your hand—and really thought
anything of it.

Picture—being presented
with a polished, single 
Granny Smith apple 

as your Christmas present 
by somebody 
who really meant it.

A short poem
is a little like that. 
It's like an angel—not a 

real angel (the kind that 
real people
would believe in) but one of those 

cute concrete statues of one: 
not great—but at least it won't 
stir any more hate.

Not super
well-defined, either—except that it 
definitely couldn't hurt.