Spike bit Maxine on the hand last week.
As blood came up in tiny beads, he rubbedagainst her legs and purred. Plows excavate
narrow, high-walled tunnels along our streets.Yesterday, the schoolhouse roof collapsed
under layers of snow. I am learningto french-braid my hair. Each morning, I gather
and plait these graying strands; each eveningI untwist them. Birch trees hold white ruffs
in their pale arms. While the house of my bodydecays, I remodel the other. The kitchen is down
to dust and studs. Avalanche danger is high.I woke this morning from a dream, thinking:
if no one knows I am lost, how will they ever find me?
POEMS
A - B
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.
ChangingLINKS