Poets’ Corner

December, Henry County

The dead grass stands where it withered. The corn stubble, a muted choir its praises more remembered than sung in this landscape devoid even of the solace of snow. The sun muted behind the gauzy sky makes no shadows. No one here believes in spring. Summer is a myth, a story of the man and…

Sunscreen

That day we went to Southport without a thought of Time, or Love, or God, or even sunscreen — when it was late July, and we were nineteen, when beer and cigarettes were all we brought, when swimming naked meant the glimpses caught were also offered, when no desire was unclean, when death was in…

Relics

The saint in her stasis reclined there, Preparing to rise, her handlers made clear, On what bailiffs call the Last Great Day When they swear in the witnesses at court. Wouldn’t it be fine to see it happen In the rainy doldrums of a Thursday, The skies finally parting, not for the sun, But the…

CHURCHYARDS

1. I never can see a churchyard old, With its mossy stones and mounds, And green-trees weeping the unforgot That rest in its hallowed bounds ; I never can see the old churchyard, But I breathe to God a prayer, That, sleep as I may in this fevered life, I may rest when I slumber…

Sparks

Sparks flying over beaten metal In the gloom of a smithy; Drops of dew upon a petal In the grandeur of a city; Strike a bell and there is music In the late-spring streets, But there is a sound of pity When the blacksmith beats; The sighs of the lovesick, The sparkling of artificial stars,…

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