OLD FASHIONED
Middling through a forest unawares
obscure bright cancers grant me certain life
as if, agape, I enter something wild.
*
If this is hell, why all the calm?
Half-eaten fruits &
prior women
the sins that enter emerge anew
on a side I've never considered.
*
Things don't work
so well anymore.
A force of a forest, a cane,
a final wreck.
My knee is still sore.
Your face glides across the waters
like one of those leggy, slim bugs.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
NO OUTLET
Receding to brown: day
swept over precision attacks
my fan base is on board
as the last train leaves
& your heart is an expanse
of flowered bandwidth:
don't stop the crocus
or the golden finch
each part once embedded,
numbered, now pried loose
from the fence post
but I cannot push
the water through the gate.
swept over precision attacks
my fan base is on board
as the last train leaves
& your heart is an expanse
of flowered bandwidth:
don't stop the crocus
or the golden finch
each part once embedded,
numbered, now pried loose
from the fence post
but I cannot push
the water through the gate.
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