segunda-feira, 29 de fevereiro de 2016

two poems of mine, from long ago (salvaging?)


today on the island
we walked deep into our own wild hearts.
a ship from texas was bare red steel,
parks cluttered with summer,
a bronze-skinned lady who
smiled, sold you some pages
   from someone's past
would have loved you

back at the docks
we watched
families rush home
    to their evening.
you rested your head on my silence.
there were pigeons
    flapping above,
driving us back
    into Manhattan.

 (late 80s early nineties, NYC)

the wreck

(this was a longer poem, from which I have 'rescued' only the first stanza; the rest just didn't seem to be salvageable)

Though the children huddle at the roadside
clinging to fragments of windshield, a broken
hupcap, a bone from the steering wheel,
it is only inside our own cavernous skulls
that the memory is kept:  the place the road
took an unexpected turn, a curve too sharp
for our tires.  I would keep talking all
night while you wanted silence, a detour
from the blinding lights of each passing
town.  And I was always wanting
to dance.

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