POETRY
“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
I imagine that undressing a color, though, would be so much like peeling a memory away from the grey and the white matter of your brain.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place
the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.
and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud
Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.
Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.
I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.
I have an axe
with hearts gashed
The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.