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a melody played inside an f


by Darryl Price



 

like the miserable sledgehammer i am with

no adjective in place to praise the moon you are 

a hole worn into a favorite rock i have only been    

able to invent this wronged language in which

 

being moved by your beauty leaves me gunned down like

an unpublished photograph full of gossip your 

silence is louder to me than the latest undying fires of 

your violin face silence is much harsher than

 

the cheapest whiskey i can find your silence is

louder than a rainbow slicked puddle a warren 

of the youngest brightest shining shapes like water

carried home in a pocket the hope that everything does

 

work out for you your silence spoke like slurred melted snow

like the proverbial bird that has flown silence 

like grains of sand like fractal wind that takes me by

surprise your silence is whispered unto itself at long last







Bonus poem:


Oh Crap

I only meant to write this because I didn't know what else to do. If I haven't reached you by now there seems little hope left. So it's not spring or anything like that that is being made here for you.

There is no promise to save. If there was one it has passed. This is only a finger drawing in some sand. It's meant to be washed away. If the sun comes up and still finds it it won't

last for that much longer. The time for forever is gone by. I only wanted to see you again, to be in your presence and smile at you. I know how that sounds. I've always been goofy that way. And now

I find I'm still completely washed out to sea, as if nothing real has ever happened to anyone, as if there is no earth any more, no shore to return to, only wave after wave of some joking, crashing cosmic emptiness. Any sea bird calls it out correctly across the bleary watery lights of home.

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