So the idea for this sequence of ghazals
is that the first six will follow the form as closely
and true to form as possible, the second six
will decay in some way, and the third six will--
I don't know.
I haven't gotten there yet.
But the first two I think followed form,
and the third one is sort of in between.
"April migraines and turns Sunward, faces to scale.
Late morning Sun, a radioactive pollen
dusting my father's palate of a morning Sun.
In a closet among ill-fit clothes,
I wanted to nurture a deity, feed
it axes warmed under my praying knees,
play games of enemies sworn to the Sun.
A roommate's girl shudders against a table where we shoot
stick in the shadowed alley after we paw, lick, parts
gnashed by [? bronze suns ?].
Don't forget the ashes of Tuesday's dead polluting
winds and rivers.
our cities, scavenge the Earth with a larval tenderness
of a pre-agrarian Sun.
Were you thinking It was your life up for decision?"
Oh.
"Were you thinking it was your life
up for discussion, picket fence an illusory ginormous wall?
Aren't some jobs suited for unavailing sons.
Often the fighter or cowardly one, by careful knocking,
arrives sleepless.
If life is indeed behind the door,
it's long hackles shake its fleas into the Sun."