Saturday, March 6, 2010

"Deleted IV"

Explode 
in
expectant hope:
Christmas.

That,
or a kind of grieving.



"Deleted III"

You
I

I tell myself in the final moments,
I will try to find 
the words I have
forgotten.


"Deleted II"

The icicled air
and
hours of sun
change is the snail
across the front step.
Our own trails are longest, we, for whom
the only wounds that cease to hurt
are self-inflicted.
Only too often
we bear
but hide
our own.
All we have are fragments.
Perhaps another final line?
Converted churches.


Lines deleted from my poetry:


'Deleted'

For days I
wait
dormant instead.
When 
it is so
a choked sigh
poisoned every next moment
and, 
when I saw you last, 
the weight 
of an intimacy with doubt.