December 28, 2009

Harsh Babies

It surprised no one--
the hang of feeling,
the medium of passion.

In the cold, those
harsh babies--bloated,
gaudy--claimed commitment.

With the bottle, the smell
of private love, lean,
drooping too large--
chemistry liberated.

After the war,
he did not speak. Life,

its routine tidiness,
stifled the peace.
His first love, old,
bought secondhand silver.

With some guilt,
no outward hostility,
he accepted affairs.

Exhausted, his forgiveness
lay propped up. He squeezed it.
There was nothing.

4 comments:

Paul said...

Your poetry has such exquisite control over tone and depth of thought these days. It is going beyond,

Elisabeth said...

Haunting and resonant, your words cling to my mind. What more can we ask of poetry?

Agnes said...

Beyond beyond and back again. Thanks for reading, y'all.

david said...

Interesting… I might try some of this on my blog, too. It’s quite interesting how you sometimes stop being innovative and just go for an accepted solution without actually trying to improve it… you make a couple of good points


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