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The Sky Bent Over


by Darryl Price


 

 

and coughed its grey net over the candle

lit world outside. Birds of an arrow sprang

into thin air and disappeared over

the hills in a quick shortness of zoom-breath--  

like a stiffened branch snapping . It's cold. There're

many things in this world colder. Living

 

arrows that do hit their mark more often

than not. You're not supposed to notice. The

buried fields will slowly eat the snow away.

Be patient. The moon will return with

her shovel of stars. And no one will be

the wiser. It all aches too much right now--

 

for me to be able to see straight inside

your hearts. You want snowmen to live? So

do I. Well I think your hands are meant to

capture other hands and warm them. That's the

true meaning of every season's cusp of

steaming liquids if you ask me. This year's

 

spiky sidewalks aren't even displaying in

spite of the brutal possibility

of something large and untamed in the wind's

swirling undercurrents. Our tests are different

now. We stand at the shore, together

and alone. There will be pretty rains

 

that'll surely break your heart with their simple

songs of missing. There will be clear blue

days to come too perfect to remember

for long. You'll be there. I don't know where I'll

be. It doesn't matter. These things will not

pass away nor run out on you. You'll see.







Bonus poem:





The Soft Wild Places (revised)


by Darryl Price




 

where we once stood and parted the raging waters 

of whatever it was we had and received each 

other's lovely landscapes are not forgotten. That's why in 


spite of the so many dark outlaw brambles now 

on fire with strange lost hours stretching across our 

divers paths I have brought back this piece of 


broke poem for you. I know you are no 

longer standing there in the rain. It still belongs 

with you more than me. What we found out 


is what we created. You're always welcome. You are 

not alone. That was the meaning then and now. 

Somehow you think this means I'll never put my 


hand on your waist again. That's not the plan. I 

have tried, but there's nothing I can do. I 

too have those crisscross memories, but great writing is  


calling. Now there is that something saying my true 

name like a deliberately chosen surprise. It was always 

the knock at the door game. Wake up. Hold 


to your heart for everything you want to see happen. 

That's my message for you. Here. You and I 

both know a simple secret. I got this thing for you. 


 

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