................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Maurice Oliver............................................................
Brief Lives. A Winter Vacation.
Day Three.
At the motel
we sit on chaises
by the pool. There is no
water in it. So we pretend
the two lit candles are sacred
lamps meant to wish upon. But a
car alarm goes off in the parking lot
as if it were some kind of warning. When
it stops I timidly say, "I suppose the favorite
parts of my childhood can be found in the pages
of a book on magic", knowing she could never top that
one. But to my surprise she comes right back & says, "and
I always thought the only way to stay alive was to run fast". It's at
that moment that we both realize just how well life can keep a secret.
Being Dramatic, Of Course
Far better than you understand yourself:
or perhaps a piece of raging elegance
inlaid with diamond studs then etched in
the real ivory of self-erasure
or each soul worn within relying
on the hems of ragged garments lit-up
by a handful of fluent confetti
or a veil of the sanctuary that covers our faces
from the brazen night collapsing under the
weight of the completely anonymous
or perhaps the single arrow of some obscure
faith that has somehow learned to heal
itself using a set of voluptuous prayers.
Dear Heaven...
some nights she sings me songs about
applause dropped off a bridge. I play
a few notes on her sled ride & the us
in tomorrow is once again relevant.
Deeper says our passion with ink on
its sleeves or quality time disguised as
unquenchable puppets smeared into stars.
And at those
times it's spring
and far from language.
Main Page
This site sponsered by
|
<![CDATA[<xmp>
<body>
]]> | | |