St. Paul's Churchyard
I move now in the place near
death: your strange dizziness,
my heart, this heat.
I open the iron gate.
On the grass I read inscriptions,
tilting, cracked, erased by rain,
inventing new verses of overwhelming
emotion - willows weeping, friends
pausing as they pass by.
Near the stones lovers kiss, sharing
bread from paper bags, feeding
crumbs to the small and hungry birds.
death: your strange dizziness,
my heart, this heat.
I open the iron gate.
On the grass I read inscriptions,
tilting, cracked, erased by rain,
inventing new verses of overwhelming
emotion - willows weeping, friends
pausing as they pass by.
Near the stones lovers kiss, sharing
bread from paper bags, feeding
crumbs to the small and hungry birds.
Fearing the Mist Near Lumberville
I fear the mist
that concentrates in hollow places.
When it begins to rain,
I walk into the fields.
The trees are cold and damp.
The hillsides are terribly steep.
A man was killed once
when a branch came crashing in a sudden storm.
I am aware that landscapes
can be dangerous.
I enter them with caution.
You are my entire life.
that concentrates in hollow places.
When it begins to rain,
I walk into the fields.
The trees are cold and damp.
The hillsides are terribly steep.
A man was killed once
when a branch came crashing in a sudden storm.
I am aware that landscapes
can be dangerous.
I enter them with caution.
You are my entire life.
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Michael CooneyMichael Cooney has taught in high schools and community colleges in New York City and is currently a facilitator with the New York Writers Coalition. His short stories and poetry have appeared in Sundial, Bandit Fiction, Badlands, Bitter Oleander, Second Chance Lit and other journals, and two of his novellas have been published by Running Wild Press and ELJ Editions.
Website // upstateearth.blogspot.com |