why write poetry at all
when there is the wind
that carries 'hallo hallo'
of the crow, high up in
the cottonwood tree, to me?
i throw both hands away
and reply with the same
throwing hands
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throwing hands
drag thorn
drag thorn,
too weary now
to pray
night drips
cinnabar
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drag thorn
rain under glass
sometimes we are all storm
with clouds iron heavy the sky and
weighty chains to rattle drag
a train flowing heart at behind
dress sensible, station shoes, silk:
a dream found you waiting
but we found you gone ahead
on and to without
with rain under glass —
left a crumbled platform
stormcloud in wantingTo like, click comments or:
rain under glass
waters unswept by wind
i fell drunk from the wagon
in thrall of a stained glass you
piercing flint storms calling
winter back into view
you should know, the fall
left me thorned flesh
for years now, i have been
prying septic wood at teeth
of all the beautiful goodbyes,
yours left waters unswept
by windTo like, click comments or:
waters unswept by wind
break the wheel
asking earth to embrace
bone, blood and
drink flesh to drunk
give eyes blind to stone
to a cairn of song
give all to ash and acorn
break the wheel and
scatter it allTo like, click comments or:
break the wheel
funeral tears
self-loathing refreshed again
a useless fraud and loser
reminded of his place
there will be no tears
except maybe those of joy
when the funerals beginTo like, click comments or:
funeral tears
Dawnstar
He goes to Dawnstar’s back room to listen to the speakers. Got a lifetime full access to all the courses from back when they still sold such things. Tomorrow night, they have a guest speaking on certain secrets who might be able to help illuminate passages in a certain book he keeps on his person for the past month.
Consider me squared up on the debt to your grandmother. Forget who I am. I never want to hear from you again.
Dawnstar.
She checked the timestamp. The email was sent yesterday. Tonight, then. An accounting.
“Coffee?”
She did not look up from her laptop, but continued staring at the screen, an absent-minded wave of her hand — long, lean fingers made longer by fingernails at the fringe of staying a sensible length and painted matte black — a universal gesture in cafes around the world that said, “Fill her up.”
She considered typing a response that would remind the recipient that they did not get to dictate the terms of the balance of their debt, but decided against it. It would just land on empty ears in the dustbin with other spam.
She made a mental note to remedy that with an in-person visit after her business had concluded.
Last week, she would have taken in the scenery as her server refreshed the coffee in her cup, watched the hip-wiggle as the young woman walked away. She had done it enough over the past few weeks since arriving in the city, taking up residence in the overpriced rental rising above the already-broad Mississippi.
She was worth it. And that delightful rear end was given the backseat in her mind as she pondered how to catch the fraud who had absconded with her family’s secrets and probably was responsible for the murder of her grandmother. He had an alibi, of course — they always did. But that did not mean he was not responsible.
The stains left behind, the lingering smell of brimstone detectable to her nose — it was all she needed to know to put Marcus Kane, or whatever his name was, at the scene.
And he had finally made a mistake. Eagerness to unlock those secrets from the written word were a regular part of the downfall of people like Kane. They were intemperate by nature, something she had counted on since she came back to reclaim what was her birthright.
She sipped at her coffee, black as sin.
He would regret his life’s choices by the end of the weekend. He just did not know it yet.
But now she had the information she needed to begin.
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Dawnstar