Poetry

Must I Un-Wish?

The son of lands, and lands amazed,
That sheer a composition, in the fair hands,
Of Mendelssohn that grown from the stems,
And tendrils, furtive maelstrom in sound,
And bearing without a formal syntax

Natural.

My dear! Enwrapped around,
Senses displayed—I had thought the reality,
The drought and rings of nymphs,
And I, and I so foolishly pestered,
Thatched by those dead, those pranced,
At the sight of the endless bloom,
And I have remained in my quiet room.

Open Eyes, World.

Holding the shadow of the child like her own,
And some shawl pulled back, soft as the plumes of an egret,
That will reveal all regret,
Your regret, and my own.

Rusting Off the Wind.

See them smile, see them smile,
Impression, lipless patches percolating
Footfall in the mist, there was no trace.
All worthwhile, and I durst to look down.
Oh, what a miff

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

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.

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)

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.