Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Poetry Wednesday


ponderosa pine,

the ghost at the end of my hall
does not come to you
(only to me) with a mask
and a quiet disposition.
cross-legged we
Consider One Another, our


the exchange:
I have his disappear-clothes, he
hums too;
the song crawled up from the corners
and lit up his mouth
orangecolored I know and he

also does.

Annnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

White Apples
by Donald Hall

when my father had been dead a week
I woke
with his voice in my ear
I sat up in bed
and held my breath
and stared at the pale closed door

white apples and the taste of stone

if he called again
I would put on my coat and galoshes

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