Monday, October 24, 2011

Two Poems by Warren Longmire


the seeds drift through your fingers
helpless to the broken concrete.
the roots are showing
and the crowd have thinned.

we reflect the sparrows.
nervous and dressed in
light purple. Like
lilies of the field
we toil for nothing.

this is the ending.

leave the wedding photos.
let the moonrocks turn to stone.

gasp my name for the last time and
cry in public.

the mountains will not cover us


Cracked apple skins cast metallic glows
on empty library tables
and somewhere a disk spins for you.

Growth rings of spare thoughts are carefully etched
in square sterile packs
like initials scratched in wet driveway.

Keep your hands in the dirt
feeling for tendrils of 4th degree friends-in-law
paired through shared ska bands and live diatribes

grow friend trees until they’re leafless
leave tags online like hazard signs
bridging the missing links

chance sightings ride in the currents,
lie bloated out on the beach,
waiting to be hauled through the town square.

Milk white sheets sit
inches away from our fingers
as bits flip for new key hits

and instantly seeds of silicon,
digit filled and freshly referenced,
bubble up.

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