Where would you go if you could leave,
secretly without consequences
or pricked sensibilities, my love?
Someplace I am not?
I want to chew through your leather
straps and give you a new path
that you can wander, that does not go
around and around and around.
We are not the Green George and the May Rose;
our harvest too long ago left the silo for markets abroad.
Now we sweep our little fields clean and meet
under a midnight sky where sometimes we touch
and sometimes there is moonlight
and sometimes only night.
What if the brain
a drugged or dreamed trip,
in an immobile blue crypt of
What if the mind
blinding light, slowly
sealing like a
slow-motion shutter ending
What if heaven
as a dream might
hold fast an image in its
A gentle start to autumn.
Even an old man feels a touch of hope.
Smooth azure sky,
crisp all white clouds
and that mild breeze.
But every night on television
still more pictures of dead soldiers.
Perry L. Powell lives in College Park, Georgia. His work has appeared in
The Heron's Nest, Ribbons, Prune Juice, A Hundred Gourds, Indigo
Rising, The Foliate Oak, Lucid Rhythms, The Lyric, Haiku Presence,
Quantum Poetry Magazine, and The Camel Saloon. firstname.lastname@example.org