Sunday, November 3, 2013

in November's cooling . . .













there is nothing but the dried whiteness of bone
                                and
the crackled richness of autumns' leaves ; fragile & fallen
the scent of snow & sage embraced as it hangs moist & sharp
strung by silver wire fine to the naked white birch
twirling & exposed
relevant organs donated to Oz
movement becoming transgenic, soft & grey
stripped
ashamed by want and
crystalline hollowed
breath irrelevant
surrender here

4 comments:

  1. The thing I love about your poetry is that I can never quite work out whether you are expressing happiness or sadness, or perhaps you express that exquisite mixture of both. There is beauty in melancholy...joy too...

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