a poem for d.a. levy and three reblogs

FOR d.a. levy

Oh little duck squat in your beer.

Such raggedy mornings lope up the hill

and empty their pockets into my room.

I remember April on the coast of France

Wind coming in over the tops of waves

and pushing against the shore.

And now this soft light moves

in and out the door wearing the sun

like it was a gunbelt, aiming the mind

of the child at the stars and firing.

some more reposts and a poem from the series Tom Kryss and I are creating just by sending them back and forth

ANIOLY KARTY DO GRY

(Angels Playing Cards)

There is too much light

In the room for anything irreconcilable

To happen. It will be recorded

Inside the caves, on the battlefields,

Across the purple moors and darker prairies.

The cards are flipped down upon

The table, voiceless like generations

Forced to speak to each other

Through the dark

Doors of time.

For each card is unforgiven, unforeseen

With traces in its skin of the stillness

Before birth, The Ascent of Mount Carmel,

The Olympian crucifix with its living

Christus smelling like wars and collapse

Through fire of great empires.

There is no betting at all. All blows away,

Just the open-mouthed angels constantly

Surprised at how the cards fall

As if by chance.