Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Poetry

In silence, offending
The evening, I seek

To remember the word
"Yearling", not the first

Word, but early. I

Plan to remember the
Weaving in and out

Of things during
Burial (I probably wont.) I

Remember the roots
Of a glass door

Ecstatic to be not
Broken, just the pane

Of branching. I wore
Leather. I might

Have been thinking
Of the parting lights, of

Trinity with one face
Between them, of lions or

At least one, pulled
From frantic meditations

Of strychnine and morning
Glory. (I ran. She, too

Wore leather. Temporary
Beast in breast-skin.) Mothers

Are nourished by their
Sons. Mine was impatient

Bone of years of verse. Now
I don't feed so easily

Still, my wrought hand
Sharpening solitude

To cut ripe meadows, and
I've won the title of

Parting without ever
Learning to leave, pieces

Of white light eaten with
The flat tooth of language

And I survive, paused and paved

Without succumbing to path.

* I'm two years sober today, July 15th-
Glad to be alive, but still working it all out