An Icicle Hymn
As the smell of silence drifts
Like coffee in a room of talk,
Seated in the ranks of strangers,
(To him, and perhaps also to themselves)
A man pauses from a book
Of poems, and writes:
Pain’s arrow doesn’t go through time. It merely freezes, a icicle hanging Off of memory’s fountain, over The copper of pennies thrown in for luck, Each occasion erased in the slab of ice,
And waits, clear and hard, to thaw Deep inside the worm-rich humus of Everafters and evermores.
My Poems
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After Buson*
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A Remembrance of Dreams Past
I dreamt a dream
Of a life running parallel
To this imagined one,
Of being a guest at a party Given by a love whose love I didn’t claim in time.
I didn’t talk as I perambulated, A knife in hand, through a web Of whispered wrangling.
When I came to In the late morning amber Spangling my room
I realized this may have been Death I dream about: Death, and the irredeemable Loneliness of death.
My Poems
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