Angles meet angles not mattering
The wind fills with ice
Stinging the bare skin where sleeves rise
Hoodies blow aside
I am a step to the left of myself
Not able to correct knowing this
I’ve learned to double-knot my boots
For a confusing walk from the front door to my car
Where things slam suddenly to center
Once the door has shut
The Working Order of Things
beer, bees, birds, bummer, cars, coffee, death, desert, desperate, desperation, discomfort, drink, drugs, drugs and alcohol, drunk, ease, fallout, food, happiness, home, hope, humans, lessons, love, lovers, lust, man, marriage, men, messy, naked, nature, nude, object, our time, our town, peace, people, poem, Poems, poet, poetry, poets, power, punk rock, sadness, secrets, sex, shit, small towns, symbols, the west, time, truth, vulnerability, vulnerable, war, work, working, writing
About Me
A poet-chef living in Denver, Co. I use the orange Aquafresh toothpaste, off brand mouthwash, and those little floss picks.
Daniel E Haislet 
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