Just Like Poor Tom's Hair

Jared Stanley

(from Book Made of Forest)


you have a moon

that you are made of


moon grey

and copse-color

a far gauze

            lunaire, lunaire

motley with skin gleams

mere in its shitfulness


like Poor Tom's hair

a bric-a-brac attempt

a glint


to hide or rest

in the undergrowth


White flag or heal-all,

you send me

kisses made of no


because I'm made of money

and don't care what the night is for

in the capacious branch shadows.


A figured owl in the teeth

of mama nature's last laugh.



you can't win.

You're wallpaper,

a head on the ramparts,

or a compass of hinges

in a city's sky.


Free, free, free—

we are made of fire

and you are

made of cheese.