#AmericanWriters
Curtains forcing their will against the wind, children sleep, exchanging dreams with seraphim. The city
FOR DAVID P—B The eye follows, the land Slips upward, creases down, forms The gentle buttocks of a young Giant. In the nestle,
We were entwined in red rings Of blood and loneliness before The first snows fell Before muddy rivers seeded clouds Above a virgin forest, and
I keep on dying again. Veins collapse, opening like the Small fists of sleeping Children. Memory of old tombs,
When love is a shimmering curtain Before a door of chance That leads to a world in question Wherein the macabrous dance Of bones that rattle in silence
One innocent spring your voice meant to me less than tires turning on a distant street. Your name, perhaps spoken,
Beloved, In what other lives or lands Have I known your lips Your Hands Your Laughter brave
Tears The crystal rags Viscous tatters Of a worn-through soul Moans
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone
Beloveds, now we know that we know… Without notice, our dear love can… In the instant that Michael is go… Though we are many, each of us is… Only when we confess our confusion…
The sun has come. The mist has gone. We see in the distance... our long way home. I was always yours to have.
Some clichty folks don’t know the facts, posin’ and preenin’ and puttin’ on acts, stretchin’ their backs.
They went home and told their wive… that never once in all their lives… had they known a girl like me, But... They went home. They said my house was licking cle…
Give me your hand Make room for me to lead and follow you beyond this rage of poetry.
Soft grey ghosts crawl up my sleev… to peer into my eyes while I within deny their threats and answer them with lies. Mushlike memories perform