David Caruso
|
where bruises were . . .
a heart-shaped tattoo bears his name my father’s voice
it trembles over the phone . . . it reaches my ear it doesn’t (Prior publication: Ribbons) mixed-up
the pen's ink my father's shadow |
ocean sunset . . .
deep enough beneath the surface such a thing doesn’t matter summer harvest
the poor girl’s doll has corn-silk hair even that rainbow
looks pale behind you |
some cross you for love
some for freedom, some for fame but you look away you rolling river toward the wide Missouri where teeth once were . . .
the prisoner’s blade beneath his pillow between her breasts
the dollar bill beneath her daughter’s pillow (Prior publication: Modern Haiku) |
tenderness . . .
i touch her face with all ten fingers tree climbing
the smallest child the highest up (Prior publication: The Saturday Evening Post) |
