Sunday, January 31, 2021

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.




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