Two Poems

YOUR BLACKNESS

black feet, black bill, black breath
                    the crow tells me I don’t know
               I don’t listen

                         warn them hungry my branch back up stuck-man fly away
          I don’t know the crow I don’t have time

          step     pluck     babymouth     wind
The crow          listen

          stuck-man

COMFORT

Frosted windshields challenge scrapers,
          white horizon blurred by flakes.
They’re all indoors now at Molly’s red house,
          though the heat there’s busted-great!

Lucky the girls are warm; they were given
          ratty fur coats, made elegant, bundling their charms.
Magically flowing locks of auburn, Bethany. Green eyes with
          gold flecks looking up at me, a questioning squint.
               I lap a tongueful of sugary milk from her navel. Delicious.