Poetry
By
Eric Machan Howd ©1996
Lunatic
rooms are empty
floorboards fat with setting sun
i paint the space between stars,
the way shadows reach across grass in
darkness
white, she brings her entrance
face full turned toward mine
a kiss
cool whispers
her hand dipping mine
in ivory, smoothly directing
each brush of finger, stroke of hand
all nights we howl our joy
Leng-Tch'e
Torture of the Hundred Cuts
the silence a fractured figure:
bent bending at the abdomen
armless
frayed erect
as if to say
it was life
under this sun
in the garden
the body shadows each hour
peeling minutes away from the sky
ghosting the innocence of adam
again
the statue read
what have I done