Poets’ Corner

Wring the Changes

I have known the breathless feeling of a sponge that has been wrung thoroughly and roughly above my life’s chipped sink, squeezed to the point of tearing by the chapped hands of God until my shape was nothing. Until I could not think. I have known the way one squishes at the crushing of one’s…

Dead Shall Rise

Thanks to the ubiquitous suburban aversion to rake, which I take to be a sub-function of an associated suspicion re: work, one now can see it in meatspace— as I think the new term is for “real”— most days, even in rain: the rise, as browning, skeletal, blood once red even or golden over leaves…

In the Sandbox

For L & S Sand sifting through and over your fingers: that is power enough, for you know that to build is to be divine in this small world. By your spoon and single truck, you are deified, as deliberate as—or more than—those kings of old Mesopotamia steering their kingdoms of clay. ~ ~ ~…

Two Poems

Before a Resurrection These are last hours before last hours, and the flowers, earthen syntax between sign and sign, between your life and mine, bound in silence to the ground at night, where I wait, not knowing which words to say as proof that to rise and worship is right.   Rewilding We are to…

Canzoniere 349

At every hour I seem to hear the messenger she sends to me, and so I change incessantly, diminished by each passing year as my reflection turns unclear; I spurn the way I used to be. I long to know when I’ll be free although that moment should be near. How joyous it will be…

West Nickle Mines School Shooting

Man enters classroom, opens fire; Five Amish girls will die today— Doves take flight from schoolhouse spire. Two daughters cast upon the pyre Their lives in hope it might allay The man with gun who opens fire. While outside, as police conspire— the press reports, the parents pray; Doves will cry, hearts expire. Word travels…

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