Poem: One of an Infinite Number of Summers

The smell of fresh cut grass
Hot dogs grilling and chlorine
On wet bikini clad bodies
All the trappings of summer
Days spent wasted on love

Poem: Church Point

On the riverfront down at church point
There’s music rising up from the river
Where the gathered congregants
Drink shitty beer and talk of Marx
Or whose going to do what
With all their big plans soaring
Towards an uncaring god