recent poems

there is a pigeon too old to fly

you cant say he is waiting for a wheel bump but he is
waiting for a ride to the lake, its like the white dove we wait
to run more similarly to a mountain, like the sleeping old man
always on that bench in the park, more and more always
and from moths, moths searching empty skies in a brief time
as the elves remarks
at our death when we pour as water into wilderness
oh bear dream when

and mountain
let us replace the windows with dreams stuck in honeysuckles
like eagles in the chamber, to be a sunrise I am ready
evaporating dawns arrive and we picture an older religious person
in mercurial robes capturing our frames
though we shudder in the sprockets
following our mountain doorway of days, in the pegasus heat
when the wands dissect our eyes into cauliflowers

temples of trees, daylight fires the funk into my jewel mind
and a sea of star eyes, empty head bands, far inside the salmon
blue winds strum, the crane runs
all is ice

by Tom Blood

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