Melissa Ann Lambert

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Penumbra

A fold in time

Where folds are blankets

A hot gray country

Where blankets are not needed

An underground room

Is cold with blankets

And cloaked in time


Dirt Road

 

 A clear cool rise

Of gathering land, rolling thin stars

Strip gravity’s hum

The falling road dawn

            fell free from it’s haze

            Numb air pressed hard…

Blue trees loom black, fall leaves

Spill down

Young scents rise with a

Clear earth-wind

            A dome-sheltered town

            floats low far away…

So half-lighted hush

Fills eye swollen sky

Glass daylight strains up--

toward previous moon

            The dust in the wind

            Sifts down to the road

Wind

She waddled upright like a worm on the night

The dark dwindled out like a pin

A rain dazzled tar-summoning mists from afar

The dull feather house smelled of tin

 

Leaves float warm like a cork on a storm

Smoke-streams spray crystal to ice

A wind spends out strings and flashes dew rings

Another shy dream to entice

 

Assessment

Methodically careless

What is sure

A road, a measure lift of unending, alleviate the eye and brow

                                                                                Pain

Memory fallen, lips as teeth as

feet as volition simultaneous picture-artistry-image

Unfolding shard past of scrubbed knee

Fingernail of gravity’s reliance

A fat sparrow digs feathers through a window

ten o’clock tea and counting drunk, is the mirrorless

Critique, as pages stack

As dreams flicker

        Endlessly mind

Loping, like a lazy horse.

 

Untitled

Floating downward, my memory seethes and swells,

then flurries, glides, becomes strict, falls faster

knocking against inanimate objects

From Space back to Earth

 

And there it dwells in some darkened crevice

Like an old war criminal

Thin, blind, groping for self-survival

Mumbling all the names

Hidden in atomic dreams

 

Seeping into cellular molecules

Decay, strata, ghosts of every shape

Fat tears that dry, evaporate, mute, fragment

Color the desert of my eternal need

 

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The road steeps upward

                                  Sidewall –

                                  Bricks of wet pink.

                        Low branches splatter with

                        dew eyelash I run.

 

 


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