Poems

103

More so than music she’ll sigh
or speak through windows
white with glassy breath.

An egg or bulb of understanding
meets me halfway, but lower,
almost in earth.

Beer-froth peels away and dries
the bed now smelling of crows
or lichen-layered death.

 

 

107

Folding slow blinks after each other
the soapy handled glasses glisten
celestially.

Bright blue gulps and rivers
banked by sand and grasses
high and sparrowy.

The golden graves of masters
poets and loves.

 

 

110

Hair close tied by ivy
grown through winters' war
and stars.

Height of bended light, clustered
and braided rose. Blaze
again and bend back, relight.

Murder root delineates the days,
kindles sight. Her face?
a patch of peonies and squid.

Fair beyond a murder, moons'
tugging arm bloats the wave
beyond its tide.

 

 

111
                                                                                   
Lights sleep and are cool
in part. Now more is seen
by the faded shapes of day

when each night is cleaved whole
by one inerasable dream
more real than clay.

Silence the soul’s
reiteration to redeem
to play.

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