Poem for Sasha Steensen
Cotton Mather standing under
where
the owls fall through
paroxysm & a barnful
of your work waiting askance
for your flashlight,
Gordon’s (my favorite) face
& what
will your daughter haunt of
these archives?
night finally, one of just
poems & cigarettes & porch drinking
& there’s no more Vegas or
gradesheets
just Oriana’s hilarious yawns & we’re
filed down, fled back.