Palms Pace, Palms Press


                                  “I see a couple of typers in this room but

                                    I don’t see any poets

                                    I’m not surprised

                                    You have to have been in love to write poetry

                                    and you don’t know what it is to be in love

                                    that’s your trouble”


                                                           “You Don’t Know What Love Is

                                                           (an evening with Charles Bukowski)”—

                                                           Raymond Carver



Palms pace the walls to hear you say,

“Float somewhere else, like a place the gears won’t break”

The eyes always slick to escape poor veins—

Bled betrayed—a breath walked far to whisper “stay”


to a room


Palms pressed to walls; my eyes take a piece:


sad the years—all the breaths—you and I

—sides warm with bite and bind; a closet dream

of bedrooms, shared in breath—to whisper

—a love draped about new broken gears—

a frail gesture, too late


in a room


a whisper “stay”


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