New Poetry by DAH

fragmented no. 34

when winter is a string of rain

between bone and skin  

between emptiness

in cold rivulets

this wet inventory stops

the sun from breathing   

there’s a young man sitting

on a porch

huddled up to a cigarette

, his expression : all of his

dreams defeated

, heavy eyes , as if sinking

the rain , a damaged lung asking

for breath : if only to sleep

when it rains

my hands are like cold fruit

covered in ice , the shivering

puddles at my feet

walking with heads lowered

a man and woman , as fragile

as pawns . the heart is like this

: every life is a riddle , riddled

with emotions

, the young man doesn’t know

what to think

, the man and woman tremble

, and the water , a mirror reflecting

their unbearable sorrow  

I avert my eyes , as if forbidden

to look at them

, or to assume their secrets

- © DAH 2021

DAH is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best Of The Net nominee, and the author of nine books of poetry. DAH lives in Berkeley, California, where he is working on his tenth poetry collection, while simultaneously working on his first collection of short fiction.