Heavy as stone, I am falling. Illness
rises around me, a cold, lethargic sea.
I am sealed from autumn. All the warm
colors slide past my faded skin. Geese
follow the call of the sky, the lanterns
of stars. Their own white bodies carry
them home. Maples are clouded in halos
of gold. They hold in their burning arms
restless constellations of birds.
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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