Here are four forty-five year old short poems, and a photo of the woman who wrote them.
When Jonathan made his comeback to nature,
even the leaves turned their backs on him
telling the child in Jonathan
that it was going to rain again.
Reap a grass grown of purple seed.
Tear all your pleasures from a single need.
Curry golden things for strangers.
Step around the wisdom of things.
Bury yourself alive in the live grave of the living.
When rain strikes, Silverthorn
ventures out into stunned streets
to feel loneliness spring full-grown
violent with beauty
as rain streaks enemy bullets
onto his head.
Sam (I can’t remember his last name)
Sam’s feet grasped earth,
love always walked several paces behind.
Gold-dust clung to his legs
like ice cream wrappers
to the street-cleaners cuffs.