All It Takes    

A snootful of bourbon is all it takes.
He rattles the windows, shakes the walls.
From three to six she's wide awake.
She never hears the dawn bird's calls.

He rattles the windows, shakes the walls.
She doesn't know why she stays.
She never hears the dawn bird's calls.
For a lousy nickel she'd run away.

Truly, she doesn't know why she stays.
His sodden slumber makes her ill.
For a lousy nickel she'd run away
But there's nothing left in the till.

His sodden slumber makes her ill.
She knows that this is true.
Now that there's nothing left in the till
She doesn't know what to do.

She never hears the dawn bird's calls.
From three to six she's wide awake.
He rattles windows, shakes the walls.
A snootful of bourbon is all it takes.

The Hawk    

that rises from a bare tree
is not less real because narrative has died,

his cry not less compelling because poets
have jettisoned syntax and design.

Look how he stoops to prey.
The riverbank and wood go silent now:

Seven long beats—one perfect line.