MP

1
Bless the suicides
who live short lives
of appalling cold.

And bless me.
I drink heavily enough
to be a poet.

2
Words yell and sigh
like wild boys of twelve

racing on ten-speeds
into the vast,

monotonous sunlight
bordered by green.

3
Back from the country of the dead
with a chest-length rabbinical beard

and purplish bruises
where the eyes should be.