First We are all thinking of Ukraine we are all wearing gold and blue we are translating this to Ukrainian Google translate and back to English again Strange English strange Ukrainian Strange dreams Lumps littering Bucha’s streets Lumps littering evacuation routes Strange language Strange lumps And this swelling need —the whisper, the wind across the … Continue reading Washing Language | Миття мови | Tongue washing
Tag: poetry
Now We Are Cold
Autumn, drying leaves, fallen apples rotting underfoot, sullen teens attending to bitter, underloved instructors. The horses at their paces, steamed breath pressed out from heated tunnels into colder air, like a dying dragon's last smoke flowing from within buried caverns. This bitter liver, swollen, the dull right ache. Lager and cider - wet blankets for … Continue reading Now We Are Cold
Any Moment Now
Might be something by Eno, might be music, really waves drawing back along stones, the wet revealing unpolished fragments and razor clam shells exposed, slicing Jagged foot paths - curved, aimless, unEnglish-garden-style, the fog covering the means and ways, that cut and bruise, draw sacrificial blood with each step Lost, alone in weird thoughts, a … Continue reading Any Moment Now
Whether Committal
Do you want me? Every time the wind shifts How much is every? It's weather - it's always shifting
SCIENTIA TEMPORIS
And there is bark beneath your fingers. Readable, the way Braille is readable - as long as you have a mirrored codex living under your skin. And in a forest, with book upon book, a formed library, perhaps cathedral - in various states of growth and decay. They are one thing, they are another, mirrored … Continue reading SCIENTIA TEMPORIS
Fourteen
King Ram, a brideless exile, stalked by shades in the silent wood.Set, to rip a godinto 14 perfect pieces, reverentlywithin the Minotaur’s gates.Hot bull’s breathupon a shoulder, the burning teeth and limbs entwining.Now lifting an acacia lance, bodies unformed and reforming.Bull’s lusty urges, birthing onethe gift received, the life unfolding.The life unfolded, failing.The heated kiss, … Continue reading Fourteen
Thirteenth
The broadened view, an owl winging This… life. coasting shadow dark dappling a whitened meadow. Echo across cold earth, time, your voice… This reminder… this sudden kiss "Always. You know this."
The Twelth
This kiss, this sun on skin,breaking leaves give way to heavy steps.This path a mirrored dream,These brambles rip, tear - kiss. The broken skin, sky ripping. Shouting. Crackling. Burning.My mind full of an echoing shout:your words a scornful lecture, fading.The distant voices. The chorus of morning.
The Eleventh
...morning, after morning,sun is burning, banished, clouded,cold in winter, ice wrapped round branches,shielded from spilling seed, numbed:the numbing of heat - kissing me like you mean it,when you don't - as frost lines our windows, drafts slip underfoot, bodies cooling, motion less certain, a faded blue eye, looking west across fallow fields,broken buildings.
In the Fall
And in the fall we go raking,bamboo-toothed tools ripping up the dry grass,sweeping leaves that crackle when dry -black spots amongst the hues of red and yellow,the camouflage of New England hills and dalesrustling under feet. And in the fall we go burning,burning,burning -the pits and chimneysturning seeds, water, earthinto heat, soot, blowing ash. And … Continue reading In the Fall
Writer Moe 