Novels new

This book will end

my work of some days

meager collection of metaphor and simile

arks in story that rose and fell

shifted setting and by degrees

faded in strength.

You are derivative of other works, I say,

yet you will shine for some,

a fitting first for sequels spun in inkjet loins,

a child that will bear my name.

Silent, without voice,

but full of words, the riddle

I say you were formed in a thinking womb of months or years,

Third rock

There is blood on the ground.

Every effort, every step

more than metaphorical,

blood of man or blood of beast

this year or last.

A boy's broken nose once

bent in neighborhood sport,

or a rabbit's full measure,

even now lost, forgotten,

locked in a dim recess

spurred once from predator appetite.

Drops or gouts

blood on this spot

about a bus or a bad thing

run to me run to me

feet in frantic unison

a dry dark corner away from them

world watchers and world worry, our

illicit moment, an ill-timed risk assured

for your passion blinds you

to my reality

and so you are

or ever will be

in my mind and memory