The powder packed in bullets

has settled in our cereal.

There’s popping and there’s crunching

and milk to wash it down.

Sorry, but

having kids

and loving you,

chips,

is like coming late

and pulling the leg

of the nearest wild dog.

You should see him

when he snarls.

Herod on his heels

and a cold desert wind.

What a dream won’t bring.

SAID OF MARY AT MASS

She knew no more than we.