From Other Mothers

i am a invention childless
for the trees are a kind of faith
with white tingeing beards
i gave my wrenches away for research
to the baby faced union grand
silent disease through a harvest of glass
a hide stretched drum announces
winter counts of your father’s past
times you two in the trench
over the scratch riding of vinyl
sunday with paper and reggae and spliff
woken by the toaster accident
to the only alarm a brother can give
foretold to us on these lucky days

I Have Three Shoes and Only Two Feet

tuesday morning greets cracked sink
like an oil painting for stories of fathers
this is a stale water audience
yearly in the pines, i matter
slowly to a viennese guilty box
snuffed by films without humor
my eyes cannot stay open
laughable with a jamaican nod
without looking, my neck is a foot rest
a trail for the faithless workforce to follow
mistaken hands that screw too often
worried by the voice of frayed generations
heaped like clothes on the floor
we give this all to the grandfathers to sort