The Guilt of Elevators
I weep for the power
used in elevators
to lift just me.
Store it up,
and churches
could be built.
The guilt
of elevators is worse
than the guilt of cars.
The guilt of elevators
is hidden.
We never even
hum the hum
of the elevator.
The elevator slides
in its channel.
Feint rattler.
Melting pot.
Don’t forget
the rare plummet
despite the missing
number.
Don’t argue land
or counterweights.
Remember when
they put mirrors
in the corners?
I weep for the power,
but I pray
no one comes aboard,
no one sees me.
Homophobia
Reading to my children
before bed, I skipped
where Ovid tells how Orpheus
forswore women for boys
because boys were like fresh
flowers, and I started again
where the women tore him apart
and his head rolled in the river.
