of memory.

I am dream-bound      to the weeping mother of an ocean shore, my shadow is darker      than the prose tree of mind and desire           a prospect of inner lunacy and death;      the clam’s mouth is lighter between the sun, into the silence of blue willows      to the inmost bones of creation… Read More of memory.

out of reach.

A wish, these solitudes in dark wept, midnight                exits in a dream, torturing you; emerges      in oceans, as if the face of the sea-light                is in a trance of wander, a dark mind urges       this end of game; the half-lit stretch devours death quietly in hyacinth winter as we left;               … Read More out of reach.

Flowers for you.

flowers for you bursting like a ghost; red and white violets that were in a market shop your eyes hunted them and they were yours; as the street calls out in loneliness the telephone replays with your voice engraved in a blue marble vase by the sea gone. © 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.

They had gone.

“where the dead walked and the living were made of cardboard.”—Ezra Pound. The apparition paradise projects onto streets like death, into the turn of the mountain Forward on its side where ice fell and mingled leaf-like into the ocean In pure rhythm like a God in kinship with free tamed with the ice-cold Be it… Read More They had gone.