A new poem by Darrell Epp

Times It By Seven

hazard lights winking at an inside joke,
fords hondas and toyotas from here to
where and i think i finally get it:
i loved too much or not enough,
unwise, unwell, the one-eyed
ogre with his necklace of skulls
or the bashful ghost running from
his shadow. opium-sweet agony
like a blizzard of hypodermics,
soul of a grub, rub-a-dub-dub,
photographs lost in the fire,
pink barrette, seed of a tooth,
sick rose, hungry worm, two,
now one, one, now gone: it
sounds even worse in dog years.