-
winter leftovers
I have both an iTouch (semi-elderly) and an iPhone (NEW AND SO EXCELLENT) that I keep with me fairly regularly, and I find that I compose poetry on them in place of the scraps of paper I've traditionally used. It's sort of a weird way to write, but I'm slowly getting used to it.
Here's one--a tiny little love poem--from late last winter.
Snow ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
Halfway down a piss-poor beer, belly empty and knees ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
I am much too proud of this very ludicrous poem ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
One Year
Dust we are and to dust someday
we will return, I know this even as
I am on my knees before you, hands
clutching forearms, laughing, foreheads
pressed together, unable to get up or move
despite hunger, straining muscles, book edges
digging into knees and the room
getting cold from open windows, I am helpless
before the way you love me, and when we ( Read more... ) -
Przewalski
Heavy little warhorse, standing foursquare
on rocky ground, impassive
as the stone around her, head like an anvil, legs
like young trees. She
has never been a beast of burden, never known
the hand upon the rein. Shay. Buff-colored
as the sand beneath her hooves. She is
the wind that strikes your face, the storms
that break along the steppes---as ( Read more... ) -
Virgin in Headlights, edited.
Safe Passage
In one motion the door open, hips against
the seat, the engine coughing over, Jim
up front and the boys in back,
half-falling in, all of them drunk
and laughing, the rocking half-wild swing
of long-limbed weight in darkness--
--and me with fingers checking radio and dials,
reaching up to ask safe journey from the feather
hanging down to ( Read more... ) -
Three for Three
1. Virgin in Headlights (Edie)
In one motion the door open and
my bag thrown, back hitting soft, swinging
my legs in and settling
hips and shoulders against
the seat with the rocking swing
of weight that lets me slam the door with the same
momentum that's carried me so far and then
keys in hand, the engine coughing over, Jim
up front and the boys in back ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
Ten Months
The night is dead dark and all
around us, heavy as the flannel sheets
I never want and you always do, worn soft
by the sharp points of hips and knees, and which you
have wrapped cocooning around us both. I love
you, and the way you cling when cold, hands
slipping up my shirt to rest one just
above the dip of lower back, the other
lying flush ( Read more... )