POEMS‎ > ‎


posted May 20, 2009, 11:20 AM by David Storlie   [ updated Feb 17, 2015, 7:54 PM ]

gone, remembered incompletely
like the reflection
on a broken window

seems cold, so pointed
yet invalid, immovable
and already

past the point where none
can be re-placed
by shimmery rectangles

fit in frames, the shards
go unswept
on a rugless plane

no blood, only breath
brittle as the glass.

sometimes its those
unconnected pieces
that shine most bright

like you should put one
in your pocket to keep.
but that's dangerous

and we all know it
is those who don't
kill themselves on the breaking

of it all. 
music, if pieces all hung
suspended, wind chimes

fractile figures, spinning
weights and measures
geometry like constellations.

from other angles
look otherwise
galaxies away

the hunter is a lover
the dragon is a wreath
and beauty is often not.