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Caroline Roche Dec 2017
Strong.
Perhaps a knot of muscle or
a face to wear.
Or the bartender's hand slipped.

Fragile.
Maybe a shattered glass orb or
a note about to break.
Or our egos.

Dark.
Like Edgar Allen Poe or
the center of a black hole.
Or 5:00 in winter.

Light.
"Let there be" or
something that perforates the night.
Or just the pillows,
shedding feathers through
tiny linen holes
that float down near the heating vent
then explode upward in the gust.
Caroline Roche Dec 2017
Oh this twinkling city.
“Come on over --
We have the night life.”

My car is two blocks away, just past,
just past these neon lights now.
Just past these long-legged, bustiered signs.
Come here missy, come in.
Come on, hon - you want to dance?
We need girls to dance.

Walk on, purse-clutching city woman.

Oh this dancing city
Oh this shattered city.
Caroline Roche Dec 2017
The sun is rising and setting in your sky,
But still you cry out

we must clear the nails on the wall
so your ghosts can come through.
So you can faint a big swooping faint
when you glimpse their mild faces.
So you can screech "Oh my sorry life!"

I’m sorry about the
nails on the wall, I just didn’t have time...

Even ghosts, with static suns,
do not feel so sorry as you
about their passing.
Caroline Roche Dec 2017
I swear the star-lit hours are thieves.

Deep navy our depressant
in those free hours of the night,
Principles drenched clean in burnished light.

Inhibition stolen now,
we flail a rhythmic roadside dance
an ethereal midnight trance.

Bluey blood flowers my sleeve,
Kneeling on ghostly asphalt - still.
I don’t know what I tried to ****

But blue looks red in the morning.
Caroline Roche Dec 2017
It began like this

A dulcet little stream,
a secret winding path, and
two sole salty-scaled trout
wondering if there is something to be said about
The Road Less Traveled.

It ended in the sea
the crashing, wide and
Travelled sea.
Caroline Roche Dec 2017
I am drowning
next to the sea, with you.
Drowning in the crashing wave-sounds,
and your voice.

The white-bright sky
with its sharp birds like spears,
sees us: you whispering in my ear
and the sea.

I am speaking,
but my words are crashing,
blending with the coursing tide
and your words

I am caught here,
hearing the sea, seeing you.
blinded. And my own words drowned,
and unheard.

Only the sky
with its spearhead birds, can know.
But they are both helpless, leaving
you, me, and the sea

Unsung until the last.
Caroline Roche Dec 2017
Those turned-up, star-burned eyes,
those believers -- they mistook
truths for long-told lies,
storied pages for a holy book.

The masses yearning for a place
to fix their roaming gaze
an underworld or starry face,
a theory or a praise.

Like wild beasts who reign themselves,
they tightly bind their minds.
It’s easier to box and shelf
the whims of humankind.
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