4 Shorts
4 Shorts
In Paris
Somewhere in Paris alone
Watching rain change empty streets
To glistening black veins,
He stumbled.
From the hour and the Pernod.
Now finally, he thought,
I am a poet.
In Sacramento
Hitched from hell with an old farmer.
Slow truck, cold beer.
“Where yah goin’”
I paused. “Home”
“where’s that? ”
I paused again and thought.
I don’t remember where I said.
I lied for some reason quickly.
The sunset that night
Changed hot valley clouds into
Into old buildings and alleys. I think
I cried.
In Narvick
The snow pressed a white face
To the window and Hot white wine and
Cinnamon sticks stirred and let me forget.
A while anyway.
I am walking fire. I burn
Inside waiting with smoke hot.
I am never dark. The smoke of my breath
Is frankincense
And I am transparent
The Death of the Cameo
Or
I am frightened by Transition
Woman,
No more commas.
Commas are pauses
For a breathless moment
Suspended
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poem by Stuart Welch
Added by Poetry Lover
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