DAVID LAWRENCE : Chips Off
TRINA STOLEC : Dark
KIM WELLIVER : For Cage Who Escaped
POETRYREPAIRS v11.09:053
contemporary international poetry - for your reading pleasure,
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All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge



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Chips Off Dark For Cage Who Escaped  
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DAVID LAWRENCE
Chips Off
Are those butterflies or poets flying around my ears Like inspiration? I get excited by what I am saying Even though there is no intention or understanding In the long and winding words. I shoot a word. I pin it on the paper. If this were a painting it would give one fat surprise Rather than the Iditarod of the long distance Vocabulary of a sleigh. The dogs speak to me at night. I write down their barks without interpretation. It is the sound of what should be there between The striving and the arrival. I collar myself to the obsession that living is less Opulent than these descriptions. I am getting around to saying that I am glad that you Are the girl that I bounce these chips off.
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I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian





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TRINA STOLEC
Dark
Dark I never did like the light. Dark tastes sweeter on my tongue. I don't trust fluorescent, or the dramas it chooses to spotlight. Turn it off. The lamp turns tiny ceiling cracks into Grand Canyon replicas or a giant mouth trying to eat this room. Its light casts shadows…. false darkness it sucks away on a whim. Turn it off. It calls the moths. They flutter through my visions, skitter away, attack from behind. I swear, it's a conspiracy to drive me insane. The light is in charge of these attacks. Turn it off. Lamps feed on oxygen. The noose and shackles that bind us here are pure light. Freedom is found under black lace where the brush of night brushes our cheeks and camouflages my skeletal hand on your iridescent flesh. Please turn off the light.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.05: 053
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato



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Chips Off Dark For Cage Who Escaped  
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KIM WELLIVER
For Cage Who Escaped
A child missing: that same sad story, a fist of nails to the womb. Too many options- the black pond, dragged grappling hooks snag fingers of dead wood, carcassed debris from last years hunt. Outside Coalville, oak-brush chokes frigid miles of mountains. 3 days now, of bloodhounds helicopters, clots of Samaritans in blaze-orange fluorescing across the implacable face of mountain scrub wilderness- 3 days, but still no miracle resurrection nothing but a statement of geese inked across parchment sky. No trace no footprint, or twist of hair. No fingerbone. Nothing to tell the tale of a barefoot two-year-old, weighing less than the ache of a mother's heart; scrubbed from all his future photos by some random hand. Grist for autumns needled teeth. He leaves behind only small shadows, half-covered by skiffs of snow. Gage slips barefoot over frosted grass between the clack of Sandhilll cranes, the whisper of starlings, intent. Up the slope, toes dug into hoarfrost, he creeps, sure as daylight until daylight is gone, & still further on, until neither dogs, men nor gods can bring him back. Even a boy, slight as a sparrow, inverted as a snail above Coalville's gritty industrial air, can carve himself a different ending. Tapping the soft-lustered metal with insurrections spoon, he erases the bur of life until he gleams smooth as soapstone. Easeful as a sigh he slipped the trap. He is not alone. Beneath the cloud occluded sky nestle more milk-carton missing than the unnamed can hold, coiled like fiddleheads, voiceless as lichen. Pure stones lie close in the bearable soil where dreams are translucent murmurs of rain. He curls into the smooth, peeled-bark groove of a felled cottonwood aligning shoulders, hip, pale cold feet white cheek against the deep green breast. Down between the toes of birch & juniper tasting the breath of sage, & silence, he's blanketed in wings.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.05: 053
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DAVID LAWRENCE : Chips Off
TRINA STOLEC : Dark
KIM WELLIVER : For Cage Who Escaped

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