Sunday, September 11, 2016

carver's bones

what my hands
want to do is plunge
into the white light

wash themselves
clean of poetry while
carver’s bones crawl the floor
in search of a perfect

and what is it
we try to say to each other
in these moments of

how many afternoons did we
waste stoned
while the baby slept?


i have seen you buried beneath
mountains of regret

i have walked the hill of
fifteen crosses
without feeling the presence
of god
but the fault may be mine

each day wants to
spill across the fields
colder than the one before
and when there’s nothing
left to burn
all we’ll have is love

this is not a fate i
recognize as my own

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