Classic poem of the day
memory believes
fragrance of a town(whose
dormers choke
and snore the steeples writhe with
rain) faces (at windows do not
speak and are ghosts or
huddled in the darkness of
cafés people drink
smile if here there (like lopsided
imaginations)
filled with newly murdered
flowers whispering barns
bulge a tiniest street or
three contains these prettiest
deaths without effort while
hungering churches (topped...
Member poem of the day
Looking down on himself through that dark shifting pool,
a wavering surface, an enticement, a thrill:
a man who could never emerge into this world,
a shadow, a snare lurking ahead
and a dread creature’s maw behind -
He turns, he stumbles, and he falls.
