Thursday, October 26, 2023


Have I found a poet new to me, contemporary and yet good in McSWEENEY’S of all places?

Lately, there’s been a glitch in the present tense,

the blackbird calling from the holly tree

and that frost-scent on the wind in late July,

a spindrift from the east that finds me out

as stranger to the soul

I took for granted …

Give me a little less

with every dawn:

colour, a breath of wind,

the perfection of shadows,

till what I find, I find

because it’s there,

gold in the seams of my hands,

and the night light, burning.

Give me these years again and I will

spend them wisely.

Done with the compass; done, now, with the chart.

The ferry at the dock, lit

stern to prow,

the next life like a footfall in my heart.

Or is it just that I am a miserable bastard lately? We can find out kicking off from here, I guess.

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