Midwinter
I listened all morning to the raven’s knock
though that is a lie.
I listened for maybe two minutes.
Maybe one.
And not a knock exactly
but more like the scritching
of the little mallet
across the triangled spine
of a child’s wooden musical frog.
I don’t know, have you not
heard a raven?
Perched like the spangle
atop the tree under which
I placed the toy frog
I bought for my son
and told him was literally made
by an elf,
for what gift is not made better
by a lie?
Anyway, I listened.
Double Side Jigsaw Puzzle
Ten thousand pieces,
every piece pure black,
voted unanimously and officially
“World’s Most Infuriating Puzzle”
because there is such a thing as
a puzzle critics’ guild, and
when after many frustrations solved
shows: nothing!
Nothing!
A black rectangle
that is testament only to the effort
to solve nothing!
To assemble
a black rectangle!
Who is not bored beyond
a terrifying amoebic stupidity
by such obvious metaphors?
We have to be done with them!
Done! – Except!
Dim orange light
upon the brown bottle:
I dream of you even when awake.
What in the lightless Hell
are you glowing for?
Should I Start Therapy Again
or stay fucked up for the jokes?
I mean poems.
All brooms suck.
Sorry, that’s
a sweeping generalization.
Ha ha ha ha ha.
But what a filthy floor
we had to walk on.
BRADLEY PAUL is the author of three books of poetry, most recently Plasma and The Animals All Are Gathering, from the University of Pittsburgh Press. His work has appeared in Smartish Pace, the American Poetry Review, Fence, and numerous other magazines. He lives in Los Angeles, where he writes for television.