3.
Picture:
smog pilfers
away some stars;
some cars
my words

Silence:
like a pinch, a piercer,
a piercing

Little winter:
a pistachio
salty, sweetly
confined a bead
I crack the door open
I eat it up

Clock:
a pistil
in it
time incubates

This lamplight
is like a pineapple
I want to write, write, write

I will drink loneliness in my
coffee. The sweet is turned to
sorrow, the cream is the stir
of tears.  

I will not last this.
The table was set when you
strode into darkness.

I will pin loneliness on the board.
The same letters unwrite.

Half a century is not enough
to unbelieve.  The scattered
seconded invitation is
laid green and turbulent.

I leave loneliness a song
to the unbeliever.

You fold my intention like
a glove broken in.

Winter is always the last
cry in the dark sound
under the stairs.

I leave the sounds of the
wheel under my
shoes, in Winter unsounds
tears that dry in eyes
of the unbeliever,

you, walk like steel cleats
over my poems.


Caroline Shank

My head is an empty space
Crossed at times by small sparks

A memory
A thought
Cloud
Delusion

Coming and going
And gone

in the air.
A cloud of smoke
sitting as a bloke
in a wingback chair.

Hear me
in a breeze.
Waving branches
large as ranches
whipping through the trees.

Touch me
in the rain.
Bubbling drops
of brewing hops
dripping through the pain.

Taste me
in the snow.
Powdered sugar
in a pressure cooker
puff as pastry dough.

Smell me
in the sun.
A rose garden
if you pardon
refreshes everyone.

Returning to the Tower
It was not there

The next Block
My former Home
Gone

All the places I stayed
For years
Notable by Absence

The Window with views
Of London
Empty


Now
I too

Am not there