In afternoon, sun
becomes more precious, spare
near evening, as it falls
toward that spot, thereon the mountain. That far
spot, where trees thin
and shale shows through.You can see the shape
of the world there
at the curving edge
of sky.In the last moment
sagebrush burns
red. Thenstars. Pale
and countless
as dustas ashes.
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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