up early —
from everywhere,
grief;
a bright stain on the vision,
a frenzy for touch
pulsing out of stare of sun.
a swarm of laggard days
is sleeping now,
shimmering there.
all us shadows
(tottering, lost)
will come to find it.
Author: Dina Varsalone
What Becomes of Desire
swollen black of bruised sky
thick fabric of want
noise of black thick black of noise
passers-by pass by
black sheet of night
far sound of a car radio
the curl of the turning sea –
all forms of withholding
and sighing –
wind went like a feather of breath.
And knowing
what becomes of desire.
Our Own
with our own hands
poetry
mirror
out of darkness
mouths
knew too much
live like this:
early
astronomers
like flame
then always
like flame
this manner is dance
unbridled
beyond artifice
flooded in sun
in a room
half-
familiar
recognize grief
as lost
Heart Growled
smelling of wood
remembering garden
impatient flowers
relentless against
night’s peel
a whimpering dream
of gold chimed
a dappled tapestry
of threads
like a shore
the wave knew wandering
freedom
untended confusion.
Her Silence Has Visitors
Knocking on
polluted
eyelids
mossy
hour
still
slithering
in its
skin
window
blotting
reason
clouds
and
their colliding
air and
what it holds
feel its company
Noon Sun
Too hectic to take a bow
in the warm dust;
torn by moment
as meadow.
Poetry
Cool voice,
this art;
church,
wing.
Here
Here in the
terrible cheek
telling lies,
stained by
the searching
southern light
as it claws
across
the porch
in a brief
and common
“I will.”
Insight,
a small welt
of freedom.
Head Down
Melancholy
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These Common Senses 