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Old
Saint
Old
saint, the immaculate,
is scattered,
everywhere, with
these winds
they whisper
with your aid
they freeze these
bullets, can you see old saint , how your loin
cloth is so costly,
I can
see now this evening, the casual
tramp of cold spring,
its intentions are
maimed, I watch them,
remain
silent, I pray,
I see this silence,
it
shines now and the dusk is
the seed of
the new season, it
conceals a mystery,
in these
winds, I see the
starlight with these wounds,
they are a dream, it is
a whisper.
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I
hear the train
I
hear the train,
it seems a muffled kind
of thing, it seems to
say. It rushes off, to
see the blackbirds,
in these wintry trees,
they seem to move in
this jittering cold, cooing
and sighing they said,
as they all rise up,
to greet the lifting
wind, to watch its
lessening cascades,
those lips from which
it sings.
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RAIN
Waiting
for this wet
deliverance, whose bridge
is sprinkling within this
womb,
whose
candle flickers
soothing spray waits
silently through unknown
days.
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A
POEM WITH NO NAME
What
a thrill, these green
and yellow fungus trees, my
thumb instead of the Earths
skin,
Blowing
these living spores and
rustling leaves, can you hear
their invisible flowers, so silent
through the next hour,
but
floating like a broken arrow,
then suddenly swaying, once the
wind begins to blow,
Can
you see behind the
window, a blackbirds dismembered
mausoleum, flat, ridiculous, and
very near,
it
haunts the nearby grazing deer,
who live in constant fear, of my
delicate arrival.
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PULSE
I
saw a dying pulse exposed
like sunlights flooding
unknowns, whose prayers were
pulled and stirred within
these hidden winds of clouds
unshadowed
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All
contents of this site © Finberg Books 2000-2004 by Michael Arthur
Finberg
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