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Poems, by Michael Kinnaird

Al Dente

the red glow of brake lights in eleven p.m. traffic
evaporates, reconnects,
the reflections on the rainy street
resembling nothing less than
curved wounds left by indifferent claws,
slashed and bleeding into another time
not long ago, a year,
when defeat was accepted, but changes were coming
which may have provided a temporary coda of relief
before the fiery lake.


i felt him on the inside there,
sucking it up like spaghetti;
we all know there is nothing as delectable
as that last wayward strand of hope.

 

POETRY

poetry
is the
beauty
of a single thought.

or is it

poetry is the
beauty of a
single thought.

i can never decide.

 

That Faithful Leap

so much time, well yes, and energy
spent on such an intrepid adventure,
diving towards the center, listening to philosophers,
all those onion layers,
and as the last bit of boiler plate is pulled,
as the crowd gathers 'round
in hopeful curiosity

it's too late now, put it back
no one knew, the goose is out
the dots cannot be unconnected

all that can be hoped for now
is an exit with a landing,
gather up pieces
of the flatcan discards,
mash them into some semblance
of loose armor for what's left of the future.

maybe they won't look,
maybe they won't care,
maybe the truth won't matter.







Michael Kinnaird's poems have appeared in Offcourse Issue #5, Fall 1999 and Issue #7, Summer 2000.
 

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