the good country © 2011
william.franklin.clark@gmail.com : @williamfclark
william.franklin.clark@gmail.com : @williamfclark
“And as we pause, In a glittering fresco of big anchor moon dead, Blue deaf grey fog hugs the pond in the park that Doesn’t so much freeze—only emptied and filled again When the air is right—dusting our boot tongues And the benches on the grass with snow.”
“Old cobble-brick avenue catches timber glow as it tumbles from iron rose street bulb flicker.”
“Drowsy caress of billions of seashells, snapped by the cold blue frozen breath of her, lulled our souls sunk in the sand to sleep.”
“where the hands of children dug clay, red clay, through stone and twig and bodkin arrowheads for a shoebox grave”
“The palms would not shiver no more.
And the moon glimmer will so come.
Or won’t come at all.”
“From the west came a murmur of far off gulls perched on sappy stumps of an old soaked ocean-wood fisher’s pier.”
“when the blue wagon pulled sleepy into driveway the stars puddling and plenty they, too, dropped to their knees to say fish sometimes swim to the sea, love.”
“And so those pasty little ribs on old smoky blue sky, snapped, drowning the soil, drowning, drowning.”
“Green sea tree hollows,” he said. “No,” she replied. ” Mint leaf ash canyon,” he said. “No,” she said. “Jasmine drool on ivory,” he said.”
“I wonder why you won’t tell me your name,” he said. “I’ve only seen traces of men in the waves,” she replied and went on sipping from a tumblr filled to the rim with kentucky rye.”
“pale lip red”
allendale, new jersey metro station
william f. clark
“Drowned in butterscotch pupils cast from cold blue winter moon.”
“thunderclap”
ridgewood new jersey metro station.
william f. clark
