confessions of the dreen king

if al could kill all keelholes in the world
how many wordly kills could al keel whole

the poet to the clock's alarm awake

outside the snow melts in grey sodden mounds
inside the poet's lip bleeds scarlet red
and not in any perspicacious way
you see

the poet bit down bit too hard last night
trying to kill all holes but keeling whole
collecting carefully the blood into
a napkin

whitest white his hand declaiming in an
offhand way to buy cough syrup thumbtacks
and shampoo and condoms for a friend

if al could kill all these keelholes and those
the al keel hole evaporating through
his nose