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Friday, August 24, 2012

Poems I love

Riverlight
 
My father and I lie down together.
He is dead.
 
We look up at the stars, the steady sound
Of the wind turning the night like a ceiling fan.
This is our home.
 
I remember the work in him
Like bitterness in persimmons before a frost.
And I imagine the way he had fear,
The ground turning dark in a rain.

Now he gets up.

And I dream he looks down in my eyes
And watches me die.
 
Frank Stanford
 
More poems here.