poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

How the season surrounds us and mistakes
itself for some other force,
while we may be left wondering:
What was she doing
with our bolt of wishes?
Reverberants
through the ground with the spoils
of acorn, gourd.
One life 
inverted into a swollen detail,
until what we wished for squeaked
half-liquid and ripe
under our breastbones,
turning us pliant to one world in another world,
the point of falling, of leave-taking,
abrupt processions
wind-shuffled and splitting.
Like fire and time, it must be stolen
while falling.
What's fallen is anyone's.
What comes through air to ground.
Just that much space.
A short dive.
Think how easy it would be to ruin our lives.

Added: 6 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 16 Oct 2008 3:07 AM | Viewed: 1805 times

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