poetry: results 649–672 of 735
From the scales of illusion, this love survives.
The rains come, the grass grows.
Snows bury, memory stokes
The smoke of myth, the bird of tongues.
Schoolchildren begin their graying
day on the barnacled yellow bus,
warning lights flashing, hands…
In widow's weeds, the bull, the sun,
the flower, the light bulb—it clings
to room 7 of Centro de Arte Reina Sofía,
Guernica, the fizzled-out horse, the woman.
While being converted into a human dwelling, this greenhouse hid its soul from the carpenters. Windows are everywhere. The building's heavy lids…
She baked a meatloaf. He told stories
that hurt her ears: debauched
Mexican nights. Peyote, hallucinations,
drowning in another woman's arms.
Fireworks threatened to take the top off. Wet palms
twitched under eruptions of happiness.
Shoes by the door piled up like pups…
I never gave up my love of what I already loved:
The warm white towel, the way a woman
Makes me mad with a kind quiet burning,
The early forgotten poems of my youth…
Did not slip toward your largess, Brown
Hair. Something baking smells good,
And the edge! Forsaken, some say,
The pair of tattered sneakers begs…
Woznik ran the corner grocery until he saw a roach,
aisle three, between Life and Froot Loops, and went mad.
He died that year. Starved himself to death.
I am witness to the architecture
of her breath, her
sleeping. She is a fine
quiet thing until the morning comes.
Before there were appliances that whirr,
this place was the epicenter of summer sweets
made of tart fruits no one bakes anymore,
rhubarb and raspberry pies left to cool…
Like shampoo, the scarf smells strawberry,
her hair is her shampoo smell, the shade
of strawberries in the sun.
Today I took your lone sweater from the shelf
where once the commingling of yours and mine
found perfect shelter in our nested winter clothes.
Nestling my nose in the folded sleeves…
A steaming bowl of spring:
so lazy the view…
Your son's hair wet with twilight,
his mouth a wound that won't heal.
Through gold, a comb shimmers. Not the red
cock-comb of sureness, but here, a hen-comb,
a toothed darling.
no more scritch-scratch, black bodies
through grout. No more
crumb-hunters, curry spice tracked…
Congress met with the cops and the crooks,
appointing committees to investigate.
Me was outside in the adjective rain,
verbing and verbing about some proper noun.
After the surgery, my mother dipped a rag into a hissing
bucket of Pine-Sol, scrubbed away the musk-metallic
blood from the flesh-toned seat…
She is captivated by tongues,
her own as well as others.
In the mirror, she scrutinizes
its relief-map underbelly…
From green and brown carpets
constellating the globe, we focused vacuous eyes
and rounded mouths. Once more
the door smiled him in…
Remember our reunification
along the infernal half of the Styx?
How we read each
other's recent torments…
Ink forms the mathematical symbol
for infinity over a bicep.
The odor of sin lingers
in concrete blocks joined…
lately i am fascinated with lines,
with the edges of things: where i end
and where the world begins.