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Poetry

It’s hard not to love
the bad boys, the blood-bathed
throwers of tantrums
who fill the rum skies
with crows and newborn angels.
What are metaphors
for besides the mad
ache to cover up? They live
for a reason: bang-
plowed ecstasy, wide
open fields of what’s left
when the dogs are through.
Shiva me tender,
lover. Behind the livid
trees, Loki beguiles
Svaðilfari
in the body of a mare
because boys will be.
Coyote steals fire
and, hey, it’s a little piece
of the gods’ only
sun, and he won’t be
gone long. It’s about the bright
deaths of art and coy
virgins; it’s the spring,
and that’s the dance. Cities
made of screaming and
the end of days. We
raise our hands for mercy. We
raise our hands in praise.


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