Morning Prayer

No more clean shirts.
No more bread.
No more bill money.

Only a rat race against an ambient
specter

         that

poisons the air/
rots the wood/
sells my soul
to the lowest bidder.

To a Narc

The old supply is running dry . . .
To bleed empty for a paper cut-out,
a textbook example
Smooth rhythms and delicate releases
pad the cell, feed the dissonance
Confusion is my straightjacket
Anguish is my guardian
But beyond, the day is bright
and abundant and worthy—

Fill the room with this light and
feel its offering in my marrow