V  P  R

Contemporary Poetry and Poetics




       This whisper along the wires
                At night, like a dry wind . . .
                       ÷Donald Justice

Like a confession one makes to oneself,
over and over, without relief, until blurted out
before a person one can hurt, can ill afford
not to hurt.  Like the song

one hates but hums and makes
mock rhythm for, an echo to the singing
of one who loves the song.  Like spring,
the real spring, not the loaded gun

before the chamber turns,
the click of firing pin on cartridge,
but this explosion no one hears, blood
out of the silent veins, blood running
the rocky, stumbling earth.

© by James Cervantes


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