Andrés Cerpa

dear Colinwe do so much to hurt ourselveswhen we left the Blue & Gold with the simple turnof your back & mine away from each otherthe city took overI could not hear your voice & soon its bodya succession of so many lives we do not seebirds at midnight two riverschaos blurred & seamedthis dilated language somehow got connected to all that we dobut truly what do I know about my own life& why nowmore lightmore fucking lightrememberhow since Homersince fireeverything old in everything flocks to another sunlit treeit only recently became spring & already the shattered glass that lines this by-the-water roadwhere only teenagers & addicts & fishermen drinkhas disappearedit’s a damn good place to dieCarl didwhere the thigh-high weeds gut fish in the wind& laughter rises like blood through the texture of a sockthe trail is sun-dyed overgrown & oldit is the rot we attempt to dispelstrengthened by oil& the black sand of a thousand chemistry setsbut everything comes backalive & in the process of mysteryanother heron drives below the water to eat
from the book THE VAULT / Alice James Books
Share Share
Tweet Tweet
Forward Forward
These fragments are walking from the depths of my labyrinth, the city, to the shore. From the Blue & Gold Tavern on E 7th to the docks near Snug Harbor. 
Paul Muldoon Unlocking Paul McCartney’s Musical Genius“That Sir Paul McCartney turns out to be such a brilliant mimic shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Like almost all great writers, he’d apprenticed himself to the masters of the trade: Dickens, Shakespeare, Robert Louis Stevenson, Lewis Carroll. All apprenticeships are characterised by caricature and impersonation.”via THE GUARDIAN
What Sparks Poetry:Alyse Knorr On John Keats’ “Bright Star”“I loved picturing the star in the poem watching the waves clean the shores and the snow graze the mountaintops. I loved how the first half of the poem painted a picture by negation, like a puzzle, and how it wrenched me from the cold, lonely reaches of outer space down to the grounded, intimate moment of laying one’s head on a lover’s breast and hearing the quiet of her breathing: all made equally sacred in the poem’s grand equation.”