1,217 Readings | 1 Rating


Tell me deals
your blood’s made
while I record it here.

The day after, I could have coughed up
your blood. It was tangling with mine.
If we walk forever with our ancestors
do we walk with the newly dead
mown of dignity by their own hands?
How long had the gun sat idle in the cunning drawer—
forty-seven years? More?
Who would have believed it— that the hammer
could still engage the ball.

The deals your blood’s making
shallow here, in
with mine. Tell me.
Posted 09/28/09
Comments (2)
Reading this poem again today, I find it to be especially affecting and powerful. (It's kind of hard to explain, but I feel very positively about this poem.)
11/04/09 11:05pm
Impressive on many levels.
10/01/09 10:37pm