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Click herefor Barbara
In an old house, the walls
all shy away from plumb
ashamed of plaster worn too long
in unfashionable colors
shot with little river cracks,
like a lake bed in dull sun.
Such is the state
of my ramshackle lust:
A home I fear she would not share
even if the plumbing didn't run
erratically, pipes pounding
in their rhythm of age and desperation.
I am old—a stringy old cock
of feeble crow and broken spur
and thoughtless, clumsy tongue and fingers.
But now I start a steady beat for her
of new-germed, neonatal blood:
Fine, fine capillary net. On yolk of god.
to have found you oh wonderful writer. Please, more!
(okay I am going off to read all of your other poems now)
A great poem. No doubt that this is a fresh read. I love the phrases you used in it. Just a really good poem!