Sinkhole Oracle

after a line by Wallace Stevens

I, bummed, looping my tinny beat,
alone by my mud pit, into big men,
numbly begin to empty an idiom.
I’m playing Me, bound not by time
but type—moody, benign, minimal—
implying I’m done, but maybe not.
I’m a dim bulb, empty, tying one on,
but I’m beyond my longtime pain.
I may begin numbed in to my plot,
a poet in limbo, but end mymying,
bumping my one byline to admit

When We Were the Queen

We were next level.
We reversed decrees.
We skewered the press.
We bejeweled the deer
then let them be pets.

Wherever we went,
we sexted shepherds.
We hedged the best bets.
We pretended well
when we felt regret.

Were there experts? Yes,
they were rejected.
Between TV screens,
we helter-skeltered.
We deleted scenes.

Were messes left? Yes.
We egged the temple
then yelled, “WE’VE BEEN EGGED!”
News crews descended.
“Let’s help me,” we begged.