A Poem in The Meeting Brownlee Anthology


Through the room
With present vision
Together we speak
Daggerless words swaying to the music

Open door, brave new world
Clean air, breeze flows
Walking hand in hand combat
Not expansive lawns
Or poppy field trolls
Steps strike the gray banks along black rivers.
Wait -- poppies -- extract of poppy.

Sandy brightness
Finds us deep in the seat
Listening to our heartbeat
More touch than ear
Arms 'round me, flesh ring
Not our love, I'm sure
Floating from her, I find a shirt.