Part of the Part

This is the part, alas, in which we meet
our posey rosy end, remembered things
that never were, things undone despite their
doing, broken things that just fell apart,

shiny things that really were quite shady,
thoughts we’d not wanted orbiting our heads
like Saturn’s spinning detritus. Our parts
require our meaning all the stupid things

we’re meant to say, the sorrow sunk beneath
the earnest face, the broken voice we smooth
through all the words that make our world unmade.

A day longer than a day

A day longer than a day–
water under a piling,
plying sand and silt away
till everything is water
and sky–heat lightning,
ponderous clouds.
How off the track the wheel
of other lines, the little you
the big one orbits round,
the last lost creature
In the spirit jail.