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The auld lang syne.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
A vulgarity.
Help me understand why my love bucks, and is an estranged bit of action,
Why the warm stable horseradish doesn't appeal to me.
Help.
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unbearable lightness of seeing
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Been so long...
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After reading two similar poems.
Heft.
The wonder of the canting hour.
Slang.
Pronunciation.
Shit.
Warmth.
Putrescence.
The rugged interior.
And rejoice.
The ocean, early evening.
Their feast
Confession.
The light I remember.
The measure of dearest contentment.
You owe nothing to the eyes who see you.
The throat of a girl.
Cannibals.
Joyous rotten.
Such a kiss.
Wreckage.
Wallet.
Sunset, November.
Dumb bird.
Each glance marbles the skin of what is seen.
As if one, traveler and road.
Bench.
A profanity.
The iron age.
Its beloved dawn.
Pitch.
A thanksgiving toast.
The town and field.
A lamp.
Brief love poem.
Climbing.
Transference.
The meditating above.
The ravine and the river.
Demarcation.
Amid drenched roses given, now dry.
Manifestations of evil.
From a beach.
Bare wrists.
Contract.
The new title.
The disappearances.
Ornaments built sturdy for the most distant of stars.
About a woman, recently.
How to design a constellation.
New arrangement.
In a mullion of light, ever boasting.
Prayer.
With leaves lying about.
A broken code.
A vulgarity.
Cold air.
At home with heartbroken winds.
Infancy
The series of our youth.
November (III).
November (II).
The suspension of disbelief.
The bilge of the swell.
Bread.
The roots of evil.
In an orchard, nearby.
November.
Everyone is home.
I count the ways.
Is there any guiding mystery?
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