The moon wears a dull brown gown,
& the stars seem braced up there,
a few tired Christmas bulbs
pinned to a threadbare pine.

Dublin is just as far tonight
as it ever was,
& again I'll sleep alone
in an alien city

where fleets of black-bellied cars
crawl among the funerals,
over the fur of the earth
roughed and matted with rain.

In this last push before sleep
I'll choose instead to remember
your susurrating hair,
fanned across the pillow.

Her eyes, posts
of bare hazel clique,
survey me in this chair.
Her hair gathers in rude
thunderheads by the ear,
black about the field.
Her engraved mouth
is crowded with oblivion
and serendipity, beckons
a foreshortened hand
that warbles with filaments
of anticipation.
The aspect of her neck
brims with motion -
a swan on flat water
chases the smeared
crumbs of evening.
The beach of her *******,
her cheek, her blush bough brow,
Her knee, in repose,
sustains a milk leg - 
Her face, gathered 
to watercolor thought -
And behind it all, a mind
rejoicing in the sun-
O portrait, be glad
you have no memories -
with every new pair of eyes
you have a new lover,
a new lover, a new lover.

what liberties you take
to cleanse your guilt
at the cost of my tranquility
I am but Caesar's cloak
run through, blood soaked
blade secured at your hip
I am now a ghost
of the lips that once spoke
your name whose flesh
can feel your steel
but once

I seem to be broken now.
Pieces fall as strangled
shapes to the floor.  
I toe them, looking
for the edges to rustle
back together.

Fragments fall.
Dried edges and shriveled
meanings.  (The torn
remains of my old age.)

I think I am broken.
My poems drift
off as blowing leaves
in a dry season.  
I rake them into
a pile.  The crackles
and snaps. The ends
of thought.

I write this to save the few
remaining poems I have.
Words fall from the
dustpan of dry letters
on a cold night.

Caroline Shank
1.20.21

I listen to them

it is the chatter
of angels and demons

winged creatures

the keepers of
dominions

fighting over souls
rummaging through

the lost and found
for something

that fits them
in my life

I have been both
but I still have not

been claimed so
I keep listening to them

waiting to hear my
name called

to see where I belong

Winding and wide,
the path pulls us
forward. Falling
around us are
beautiful beads
of radiant rain
washing the white
cobblestone clean.
A neckless the
generous Goddess
broke for our pleasure.
Neatly around us,
undone, one by one,
the precious pearls
are riches we run
to gather, gladly
giving grace for
the gracious gift.
Slanted, the sun,
the morning’s
magnificent arch,
is wide as ever,
though now divided
by seven. The colours
we chase cheerfully,
whistling while we walk.