Follow
the drinking gourd,
travel after moon-down.
Wherever they hang that star quilt,
turn north.

On too many poems

Pity
the editor,
the daffodil-breaker,
who has seen too many rainbows
and moons,

who's sick,
so very sick,
of by-the-by F-bombs,
and already knows what you've thought
of death.

Then weep
for that Inbox
crammed with earnest war screeds,
and questions about submissions,
with rants,

typos,
plagiarism,
obscure experiments,
tired similes like dead wingèd
clichés.

Readers,
let's be thankful
that so many late-term
brainchildren are terminated
for us.