I try to find a heaven in my dreams,
some cloudy place where you are.How can it still be morning, when
I have been out here for so long?I am in a house I have come back to.
Something is missing or broken.Looking everywhere, looking everywhere,
I am caught in a thickness of fear.I make a nest in my hands of torn
cloth, and a bird settles into it.Snow falls from a bright sky, as if the moon
were shedding ashes of its own crisp light.I want to talk with you one more time.
If there was bitterness, it’s gone now.
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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