Statue
The snow has become stone,
The patina turned flesh-colored,
Took on the shape of a woman and walked.
Nightmares and the crying babies of nightmares
Sprouted out of the cold sidewalk,
Ran through the closed doors of the houses.
Duane Locke
Posted over on Unlikely Stories
The potent images of Duane Locke's poetry often catch one by surprise; he'll start a poem in one direction, then switch gears as a poem ends, slamming us with the force of his unique visions. You'll find an intense range of emotions in the poems we present here.
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