Poetry Archives

Wrapped in personal pity, betrayer sphinx slinks
and eats; he privately shuffles our motivations.
I like the capability of my eyes, the way they
brighten the woman on the curb by the church.
She will burst alive in two minutes.  You cannot
believe the wind last night.  The things it sells.
The sun buffs the surface of technology across
our city of cracks and cataracts, which in turn
ignores the shoes rubbing my feet from their bones.
Enter some disease where the woman sells
her tears prior to civilization.  That moment is now
upon the funeral pyre.  In the crumblings & ramblings
of old men seated in tired t-shirts on stoops
everlasting, they survey remainders of wars over-lived
and fat berries beyond the perimeter ripened
with blood brought back from dust fields
by worms underfoot and pregnant.
We make wine to toast the cross and tender liars.