|Jan/Feb 2009 Poetry|
one night, looking
out of the window
you cried: the moon!
frightened as if
you saw it for
the last time ever
In The Queen's Honor
A friend of mine loathes the hills in the forest.
When he sees one, he always stops and prods it
With a stick. Then he gets a new haircut and quickly
Moves to another apartment. But he can't help
Hearing them come closer. Marching up the stairs.