Poetry Wednesday

The Wreck 

I named the brown-small ghost of my childhood love
after a flower, a matted stray and
I would have married this, pulled from my
pockets the soft baleen,
drawn across the edge of things to the hoary limit
where we gather ourselves to gather
(debris and the sight of things)

Pinioned by the mast you look
like a child, and your hair
is curlier than I have ever seen it.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Red Cloth

by Jean Valentine

Red cloth 

I lie on the ground 

otherwise nothing could hold 

I put my hand on the ground 

the membrane is gone 

and nothing does hold 

your place in the ground 

is all of it 

and it is breathing