Tag Archives: Mark Burgh

Cape Cod Lighthouse by Edward Hopper

I came to admire Hopper later, after the cancers and miscarriages had scored my geology like             a drip of water.                         I came to admire Hopper later,             when I saw how he turned             light to stone, to a                         solemn weight pressing. … Continue reading

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Ruin

Long vines clutch the rough-cut stones still piled straight: someone cared so long ago, but in vain. The vines unfurl like invaders’ flags over the stone’s mute peak. The roof’s long gone, and inside the walls, mud marries this year’s … Continue reading

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Persephone

The all-seeing eye of the sun Finds her, eating healthy, Gothed-up, black eyeliner, Pierced labia, nose-ringed, A winter’s child playing Dead with a much older man. Online pals, she met him For real, and what they say is true. She … Continue reading

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Snow Day

Black skies over white streets. Ticking snow clocks the hours. Windows steam, cars struggle through tiredness. A loose dog bounds through the drifts barking. The apple tree’s nakedness blinds me, alone next to the driveway’s poise. Bushes shaped by smooth … Continue reading

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The Red River on My Left

The cold water freezes on the river’s banks. Trees empty their branches on time. I forgot the way winter smelled when I lived far away by another river, crossed by Washington.                         Tallying the times now,             working on how to make … Continue reading

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