Dull. Morning dragon, you grind your teeth at me, & nothing happened 

then the coffee you gulp in ground assaults to cure five hangovers. 

Then off to your notebooks, & notecards, your pens, & your scorecards,

your prayers, your intentions, your dog, & his bone.

Fourteen years of marriage, & frankly, you bore me. I don’t drink anymore, 

but bland, base, & boring to you, I give up & drizzle myself with bourbon— 

with nothing on my stomach besides. Churning, not knowing your favor

here’s what I say: 

I pray everyday, Saints Mary, Matt Talbot & Anthony find us, we’ve lost our way.

In the middle of life, in a sharp thorny wood, the skies are dark at midday,

& since she cruelly gave sideways a look outside Old St. Michael’s today,

at the 2nd St. Bridge I sliced off my hand in the sight of the sweet buds of May.

I’m bleeding & bored by us, but what a curiosity to see!  Our marriage  

an alchemy of dung & straw, two things so dull they exploded.