POETRY
“Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.”
you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?
Yes I am guilty, I’m guilty. A sin was desirable then.
Bring the dancer back to the stalks.
Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote
You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.
I have an axe
with hearts gashed
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.
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
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.
I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.
