Poems & Such

NAPOWRIMO26 #17: the poem is here but the poet got lost

lit in the night

my love whose beard

has small red candles in it

my love whose lips are bread and butter,

whipped butter, with pink salt

and a rose quartz handled knife

my loving a raven among crows,

busts full of dark down

busting into the mouse’s den

my love whose shadow has one button missing

His tongue a door knocker

his hands dexterous flowers

his hands blush-and-white lilies

his hands waterfalls

his nails shards of riverfroth

my love, his eyes frosted fir trees

gone blue in the gloaming

poem about staying up for the sunrise

They sleep in sweetness

Eternal, but I - poor fool! -

Still I crawl from the crease in the calendar page,

scraping September under my nails. Ready

for that month without a name. Ready

to swallow grave dirt and eat the moon.

These empty things are hungry. The pit

To drink from my window.

My whole body is a bird-bath for dreams.

They come to rest and I

Welcome them.

My heart is full of worms

In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody.

The stars are open eyes. The stars are open eyes and if they cry

it is only because they have been open for so long.

Tears sparkle. Tears fall

like meteors. The stars are open eyes

and the moon is in love. Also,

the moon is dead.

The moon is a gravestone and the moon is dead, 

and that is not the same as sleeping.

Not even the sun sleeps. She hides her face

in a black veil for mourning.

The sun is in love and the moon is dead.

She writes the moon’s epitaph