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Two Poems 

Ryan Collins

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This Day Our Daily

To see impossible acts made possible:
a craft not a spell, not a witch to burn
though they will burn either way be-
cause that’s how business gets done
when there are no alms for the poor,
no tithes to serve the blessed art, nor
this day our daily bread, nor what you
might call grace. The counted short
& the balance due. The lowest found,
uncounted last amongst the so-called
saved—not saved, but strategically lo-
cated to buy low, sell high as the lode
star, fixed less than imagined. Seven
folds & the calendar tears at the seams.

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What’s for Dinner

The way you punch me in the nose
is so romantic
I chew on the moon in your honor

I want to be candy guts spilling out
over the violence & partygoer
squeals frantic in the falling garland

I’m what’s for dinner if you’re home
cooking or dining in—
I’m font & fondant / follicle & fallacy

I have no idea how to bring anything
to a logical conclusion—
I know how ridiculously lucky I am

to still be alive & broke & gnawing
on your skull / In cold blood with you