It is here you’ll stay.
I have to donate you—
and don’t lay blame: you were the one
who became a relic, galumphed
into the dismal swamp of old desire.
You are a specimen, so don’t insist
you aren’t exotic.

Sitting in her garden
I resolve to reflect a positive life outlook.
I begin a spiritually affirming list poem.
I like fish swimming in a pond.
Birds are good—they sing a bit.
Ducks are decorative but dumb.

Othello (Moor), Iago (scorned)
go at it in a Turkish war
but poor Othello doesn’t know
Iago’s out to get him so

The dreams
webbed and flapping, with beaks like orange shoehorns,
suffuse my head;

No friend to authors, the paper mite, devouring libraries with librarians in sight. I’ll squish any with my thumbnail that trample on my words and lest he be remembered, on a period, obscured. ———— Casey FitzSimons is an over-educated, under-published artist and writer. Her father was a Milton scholar and she has yet to walk

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