Poems of the Week: 2009 - 2010
Motionless at the window. Forehead beaded with a line of fevered moons.
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The roads have come to an end now, they don’t go any farther.
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It was the truth of it all—hunger’s chill, the scream beneath the surface.
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Who mind loved would not rather be loved body too. Since all is all.
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She is a stalk, exhausted. She will surround these bones with flesh.
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The ego with which we began filters away as love accumulates below.
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What would you say about the driver of the truck that killed you?
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