seven four-paneled poems & a conversation with ghosts
& when there is nothing to distinguish
a voice from thousands
of other voices
a chorus of want
a lack
of crispness of
image of sharpness
the pleas do not crackle
they long but
they do not
strike
at the redness of longing
its suffering has not ripened
has not penetrated to
the emptiness
of being born of a ghost
a child of a ghost
in a ghostly
place
lost
how suffering
just winds
& winds
the stakes too high
a rope coiled
& inside
it
what, what
a new skinned
moon red tongued
licking the morning air
sweet with perfume of roses
crushed: you know what they say, she says,
“you can’t keep what you have without
giving it away”
* * *
what is needed now
to be anchored
again in our
bodies
our body
our shared body
heaven earth
ocean this
love
anchored again
in our bodies
our body
Richard Lance Williams
Posted over on More Poetry
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