Books of the Dead

A vial filled with crushed bone
in the pocket of my jacket.

A yellow dumpster
with the word LINGER
spray painted in black
across its side

Something crunches beneath my sole
I don't look down
to see what it is

December Song

Walking to work, I looked for the sparrows
that flit in and out of the bushes, twittering.
I looked for the woman who flashes me
a sweet smile as she hurries for the bus.
I looked for that little dog
that wags its tail and places its paws on the gate as I pass.
The sun cut through the mist
but though I looked up to greet it
I felt no warmth. My face
was a cold shadow spreading.
The dog was locked inside. The birds were dead.
The woman was down by the river, out of her head.
I walked to work and mounted the concrete steps
one by one.

Persephone

Morning streaked with pink.
Sycamores stripped. Frost
powdering the grass. A crow sips
from water pooled between
the letters stamped in a manhole cover.

What lies beneath that metal lid?
A ladder leading down
to a dark room crammed with
conduits and pipes
and branches bursting with leaves
and a sky of pink clouds
and songbirds