Blue in the Face

The devil’s in my neck.

Everything I hear is overviolined,

even the wind, even the wind.

It’s like walking in nurdles up to my chest,

squeaky and slow.

It’s spring, the blooming branches

nearly hide the many dead ones.

A squirrel, digging for a nut, upends my frail

tomato plant and fails

to replant it, even though he has the tools.

I find this kind of squirrely oblivion everywhere.

I was a man filled to the top

of my spine, filled to the lump

on the back of my head, with hope.

Then I read a few thousand history books.

Little, and nothing, perturbs me now.

Even the beheadings, even the giant meat hooks

in the sky, more frequent each day,

bother me not

a tittle, not a jot.