A woman dreams of a house of cedar
and glass. The clocks in this house
all strike a different hour. She hangs
her feathered mask on the wall.A man stands on a crumbling bridge,
looking down at the river and its city
of stones. He moves toward, then away
from a decision.The woman no longer eats sugar or salt.
She has carefully folded her pleasures
and stored them away in her dome-topped
trunk. The man knows there are unluckyplaces, corners where cars collide and business
follows business into failure. The rainforest,
breathing green, creeps toward the clearing
and the red-roofed house.
POEMS
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C - D
E - F
G - H
I - J
K - L
M - N
O - R
S
W - Z
MORE OF SB's POEMS
@WATERMARK |A Poet's Notebook
- Disclaimer
Please do not assume that I am the speaker/ subject of my poems.
In these times of creative nonfiction and fictionalized memoirs, I think of the poem itself as true fiction: it is most likely not factual, but it must be true.
It is likely to be -- it is best if it is -- a truth I did not know before I wrote, and may not understand even then.
A poem is my way of discovering (dis-covering) what I feel; sometimes, what I think -- but it is not necessarily biographical.
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