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Hank Archer


Again Someone Is

talking talking and
my reaction is just
nod nod agree because
momentarily I'm lying
on a sheet of waterleaf
with you overtop the
summer sun shining
shining through
the blanket
and your hair
and nothing else  

Ready!

When we are in the same space
usually separated by a crowd
secretly I steel myself
just in case
this time you decide
improbably
from across the room
to leap into my arms
​

Warm Goodbye

You offer to kiss
the night guard if
he’ll let us in
for an after hours viewing
of Dali’s Meditative Rose
 
Ten minutes later
even my jealousy
cannot out stroke my awe as
before the painting you take
my hand and press it artfully
against your thigh




Picture
Picture

Hank Archer's profile

Gray Birds

In the land of vigorous death
I too have forgotten
that we sleep.

After Dinner

Somewhere in a bowl of pears
peeled in a rush
my green thumb's tip

Picture

O Painter!

Here comes the artist to his own funeral. He’s brought a canvas for the occasion: carnations across a table and fresh pears. He walked from two towns over, crossed a river, gathered courage to overcome the swamp. Now he has arrived; tired, spent, with dust, impatient for the ceremony to begin. This is a man who will not sleep until it’s over, sitting in the final pew, head bowed and fingers laced as if in prayer, meditating on all the breaths he will regret not having drawn.

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***
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