[Another poem from my rediscovered 1990s notebook. This one finds the poet in a decidedly downbeat mood. I like the way this one begins free and slowly stumbles its way into a depressively mechanical meter at the end. Call it the fallacy of imitative form, but I think it's a pretty cool effect.]
Evening in the Park, Almost Alone
People have left their leavings:
crumpled candy wrappers, a Burger King bag,
Pepsi cans rattling across the distant parking lot.
That's the only sound.
Behind the clouds a thumbnail moon
ancient as an angel's scythe
floats glowing through forbidding murk.
I'm waiting for a knife.
Here is only darkest dark,
here the clocks unwind,
here I stumble in the mud,
here I lose my mind.