Tag Archives: dirt
No Zinc
Everyone’s talking about the dirt she ate. About the myths she created to defy those creation myths she read in a fog. People return to the bluff seeking some redemption in a poet’s stare. What’s she hiding—what was that she … Continue reading
Filed under Morning Poems
Day 3,115
The taste of dish soap in her coffee ruins any chance to spill dirt about you and that fire fighter beneath her lilac bush before it rains.
Filed under Morning Poems
Esther to Lester
She stands outside the mouth in fear—it tastes like dirt— a gummy red, soulful clay soil. She passes through this entrance daily to travel into that deep, pitch, sometimes dank, place inside herself where she plucks poems from vines. Too … Continue reading
Filed under Morning Poems
Or Wave
She believes the dirt can talk, trees and wind join in—this nonverbal world says more to her than the one she keeps trying to define and confine herself to. Poetry of numbers in vibration is music. She sees the face … Continue reading
Filed under Morning Poems
Cell Phone Cyclops
A camera placed in my hand for the first time in as long as a road of memory can wind into back woods, I’m an uncertain chronicler. Not sure how to make a record this way, not sure I want … Continue reading
Filed under Night Poems
Geophagy
Watching the time drag itself through the driest dirt, she wants to kneel into it and scoop handfuls into her gaping mouth, wants to swallow expectations whole. Then spit them out. She knows she can’t have it both ways.
Filed under Night Poems
Wry
Into that laughter she takes a wrong turn, lands outside a stone wall where vines bare their veins. The host separates direct light from parallel lines across wind-stirred dirt. She picks it up at the last possible moment before rain … Continue reading
Filed under Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
Window Washer
It’s not a stone against this pane. It’s that blade hitting it— dirt of my life dripping down.
Filed under Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
Day 212 (When I Am Home)
I am New England dirt, the taste of beets out back. I am not brownstone— not urban by birth. I am still in quarry depth, the scent of cars rusting beneath. I am not ocher—not red iron ore impure. I … Continue reading
Filed under Day Poems
Sycamore (Day 1,353)
In the throes of my intention disorder, I forget your name, how to reach the top of you, how to let go of those limbs you wave over me. In these fits, the stories I tell are not mine except … Continue reading
Filed under Day Poems
