Wednesday 5 November 2014

1 Poem by Terry Mulert

In time to die

The night drifts
through matted clouds
wetting our faces
with silver overtones

my voice is soft inside
a shell of seagrass
you touch my name
with your tongue

the yellowing leaves
sketch our faces
into the sky

what keeps the dog
from running into
the forest?
unchained her fur thickens

yesterday’s halfnote floats
in the democracy of stars
clean chimneys rise
in our sleep

cold and hard
a spider curls its legs
and the pigeon stretches
its wing without flying.


Mulert is a poet and wood sculptor living in the mountains outside of Santa Fe, NM. He has published work in numerous periodicals and anthologies, and his unpublished book length manuscript "Fabric of the Small" has been top five finalist 5 times including the Levi Prize for Poetry.

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