By: Daniel Edward Moore
None
Allegedly, the weak mind thinks
on its knees with hands
cupped like beggar’s prayers,
& heaven blushes as if the sky
can wear Babylon’s rouge of shame
as well as me oh lord.
Me, your undelivered kind,
your skin envelope sorrow sealed
by unrepentant tongues.
Lord, as I walk hermeneutical tracks,
where scriptures blaze like
sparks of steel worn down by
what the body needs, I’m
tempted by burning bushes Lord,
by bodies bent into offering plates
rattling with change. I suffer
the spirit’s ten percent,
the rest my pleasure steals.
When the S.S. Arrived
Temped to fall in love with falling
on a northwest island in May, I was
intimate with the unmanageable.
Exposing ourselves behind closed
doors to how much the body can take
and give back, miles from the stares
of urban folks, dying for something
pink to touch, something green to taste.
With life framed by a cold blue edge
in a world not Safe or Sorry, the obvious
presence of a pulmonary passport made
in the dark on the body’s last day
makes time a lover with no time to love,
makes me take refuge in a deafening alarm
bare faces won’t stop ringing.
Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island.
His poems are forthcoming in The Cape Rock, Kestrel, RipRap,
The Timberline Review, River Heron Review, Passengers Journal,
Coachella Review, Ocotillo Review, Nebo Literary Journal
and Main Street Rag.
He is the author of the chapbook “Boys “(Duck Lake Books) and
'Waxing the Dents,' is full length collection is from Brick Road Poetry Press.
Visit him at Danieledwardmoore.com.