you said death is a tiny hole in us

we are not abiding places

I am writing you letters I am writing your letters

A few surviving fragments



you once said I could use your voice


as a deathmask

as a tunnel

as a white long dress

as silence

as mother entering the room

as knife with platic handle useless 

as knuckles

as death is a tiny hole in us




and the sun like boat on fire

burning out with both hands melting around my ears

turning my head towards the machines that make machines that make machines

magnifying the white trail of huge animal circling above the half burried doll ruined by rain and the safe smell of deterioration




I can not sense the passing of time

but I can sense your hand touching the sheet of paper as you sign it 

and the dark spot between the trees where we meet

and exchange the last colours





Poetry by Ghost of Heino
Read 696 times
Written on 2017-10-06 at 20:54

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one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
the more i read the last two poems, the more i am enjoying the not knowing.

there is a tradition of this in john ashberry, and others i'm sure. jeeze, the entire vault of ezra pound as another, and nine-tenths of wallace stevens.

this is different. this (by "this" i mean yours) is a glimpse of thought, as though in a cartoonówords in the air surrounded by a line-drawn bubble.