New Poetry by Wayne H.W. Wolfson

Dead Moon

My woman lies sideways and hangs her arms around my neck as if drowning.

Later, with a growing sense of unease, I would get up. In the dark, in this strange place I would bump the coffee table; upsetting a pyramid of dominos which could not even muster up the enthusiasm to fall all the way to the floor.

I stare out the window. A drink would be nice. A drink is not worth the fight in the morning.

I swear I saw her make a scratch mark, whisky tide chart, on the label.

The moon is dead, in sleep.

I stare at her, I scratch the label, carving our initials, then go back to sleep.


- Wayne H.W Wolfson 2008



Odd Land

Last night I felt a hundred years old. No, no secrets, barely enough strength to whisper in your ear. I sit by the window, cigar in hand. The smoke, it carries the notes of Prez’s horn out into the night. A fragile thing of beauty pulled apart by the sky.

No. The seagulls on the rocks below mark the time since you have been gone with a spiteful lament.

His mouth says what I want it to, a triangular pink gash from which emerge ugly things, my truth.

One of us he mocks. One of us he drives away.

All these years, sometimes in the place between waking and slumber I still see you, in your summer dress, standing below on the rocks.


- Wayne H.W Wolfson 2008


Wayne is a California based author. More information on his works and CD Midnight Latitudes can be found at his site Terrible Beauty
www.waynewolfson.com