Category: Poetry
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Thank You.
I hear the rattling, the ticking, and my Grandfather’s tinnitus (perhaps not), All the unheard aspects now, so therefore make a wish, Just one, and only one. For the evening had already set, As I waited for you—(and I near turned) all the timbre from your state, I sat down, Drank a cup of water, and I fluttered all over to make that very call. That tone, the sight of perception, not dozing on Winter’s fracture, That slung branch gone and lost, dying in a day
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Once Born.
There the death of the red, there the death of the wind, And here is a, nonetheless, word spoken, By the life it feels and here is life.
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The Fall of Patois.
For that estuary wept, with its mouth tapering, Tapering into wrinkled sheets and disturbing, Disturbing the transgressions of sense (and sense display us)
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A Prelude Open.
That it was with all fright, with all fright, That the tree’s eye was as dead as her lady’s.
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Evening Passing.
But it is only momentary, before settling in the coffer of the dark, The appendix of the evening as it lived.
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December.
Winter deceived once again, child, there is no snow, That pokerish linen interlaces rocks and stardust; May it bring the recherché in the form of an old voice, an old friend.
Pseudopsychosis. 