I’m pheening for words Wringing shaking hands Touching tapping fingers to glands Wondering if I’m getting sick Needing the fix Worse than nicotine Worse than anything I’ve ever dreamed I am an addict Addicted to poetry Seriously It’s better at disseminating pain Than a couple of oxy’s Poetry gets deep Excises emotional puss […]
People said you didn’t exist in America, just to make me mad. In Florida, the grass is made of cement. Everything is exactly forty minutes from everything else. Looks like it’s about to rain. You introduced me to things I’ve never tasted, very late at night. We paid money to get close to death. I
New England holds its antique charms for such a one as me. The woods, the waves, the poets’ graves call pilgrims seasonally. The village green in Amherst dreams of Dickinson and Frost. The shades of these speak poetry in rhymes sublime and soft. But double Concords, Salems, too, plus devious round-abouts conspire to witch my
Passage to Massachusetts Read More »
The boy in the browning field Does not see the scattering Of crabgrass, sunflowers, or tumbleweed. He does not smell the lavender or the dull decay of a coyote kill. He does not remember the rusty beer cans He kicked off the dirt path To arrive here at this intersection. He stoops Watching a black
The Boy in the Browning Field Read More »
Once the darkness was full we saw stars— striking frozen air, rippling through the underside of heaven in their meteoric plunge. Silvered white, cobalt, crimson, and then into the earth. A flashing that spoke to our very skin set against the blackness of night. A vapor immortal in absence. *** Amie Sharp is a poet from
A Geography of Night Read More »
The infinite is no longer Than a slice of sky that slipped, Stealthy, behind the apple of your eye. The universe gifted me with insignificance, And no matter how grateful she made me, I still wanted to peer into your navel. When wind slaps wet palms against pages And tempos twist tear drops, triptychs, and
