Dec 20, 2011 | Irregular Rhyme, The Work of Greater Minds
The end of the affair is always death. She’s my workshop. Slippery eye, out of the tribe of myself my breath finds you gone. I horrify those who stand by. I am fed. At night, alone, I marry the bed. Finger to finger, now she’s mine. She’s not too far. She’s my...
Jul 18, 2011 | Gus Stevens, Irregular Rhyme, Sonnet, The Unspeakable Name vol. 1
It has been the habit of your holy ones to grieve, their faces bent over an empty bowl, and in their fast they found you hotter than the cooking coal. Yet we can barely sit to pray, our stomachs full, and are lulled to sleep by a thousand bites; our bellies to our...
