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Evan Stephens
Poems
Jul 2021
On A Friday,
little birds swerve
into green chandeliers
in the park hexagram
with a seethe and a sigh -
hungry angels fill the air,
the sun gripes with marthambles,
melancholy fills a larynx
& light-shells spree across the walk.
I spent six hours at the bar,
wet talk and high song,
but the bier-bed at night's end
beckoned with red vacancy.
The aloe flowers are dying, drying
to flat little coral-colored bell-shapes;
hungry angels and little birds
peck at the windows just before noon.
Written by
Evan Stephens
44/M/DC
(44/M/DC)
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