Two Octets from a Monday

Unsettled Monday Octet

(3/27/17)

they tell me I’ll wake up some morning not cold—

I no longer buy their words; one crow calling,

from a cedar I’d like to think, as this sky

scrambles gray & white & blue without any

chance of a caress from the maple’s fingers;

the roofs have no names, the windows no prospects,

wall heater sighs like a freight train lost in rain:
the crow is speaking in invisible ink

◦           ◦            ◦

Monday Epistemological Octet

(3/27/17)

the truth comes out: what you’re seeing isn’t real;

what’s unseen is likewise unreal—an airplane

aloft descending through a major scale, that

guitar on the sofa just out of sunlight,

the monstera vine traversing a table,

one black bag so very empty on a chair,

unfolded gold foil chocolate bar wrapper;

piano chords that die inside black speakers

Jack Hayes

© 2017