Poems, by Michael Kinnaird
the red glow of brake lights in eleven p.m. traffic
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.
of a single thought.
or is it
poetry is the
beauty of a
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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