selected past writing at 42opus
We met in the apartment of accident. You carried weapons: a pen, plastic bags, a grocery receipt; necessary means of transience, unnecessary hubris. My tongue was barbed.
We want the gray old
winter to climb down
through the smoking pines
astride his white mule
to forgive us each separately.
7 July 2006 | poetry
You, if you were sensible,
When I tell you the stars flash signals, each one dreadful,
You would not turn and answer me
"The night is wonderful."
I am awake this morning and in the next room I think my sister Kelly is still asleep. I think that she is sleeping but who knows because she is not sending signals to me anymore. This is the story.
Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman.