Here is an open door
There’s a place to look through it
There’s a place to walk through it.
There’s sun on bone
Carrion-eaters swoop above
There’s dust in your mouth.
There’s color here
And a place to catch your breath
There’s a way to still breathe, oh yes.
Finally, there’s coolness between swelter and freeze
The sound of a plane high overhead
There’s the distance that sound always brings.
Here is an open door
There’s a place to look through it
There’s a place to walk through it.
Beautiful imagery. I am sitting here in Poppi, Tuscany with your Mom and Dad and they mentioned your work. Your father talked about your first poem, My dad's aviators. I would love to read that. Your prose-poetry as I call it is quite stunning. Check out some of my work. http://caterpillarcafe.blogspot.com/2011/08/poem-honeycomb-world.html. Let me know what you think. On a different note, I think you should check out a writer called John Connoly who writes in a similar vein to yourself.
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