Monday, June 24, 2013

Robert F. Gross- Three Poems


Lift his body out of the pond
He’s dead isn’t he

A pile of paperbacks
A wrought iron chair
A basket of white geraniums

A boy in a three-piece suit
At the height of summer scholarship

He never shared thoughts
About himself
Just Theocritus and Virgil

Let him dry on the lawn
Let the sunlight speak to him

Empedocles’ Estate Sale

You cannot see this thought
rising to heaven old and stale--
scaly body and forked tail.

Beyond any kind of order.
Beyond the stares of your father.
Inevitably made of history.

A rheumatic reliquary
arranged like spokes of mind--
the radiation of a certitude

Released. Smear a little spittle
from your mouth on the horizon
while it arduously ascends.

The trees may talk to you.

In Lieu of an Epilogue

It does not speak to this
any longer
the subject of love

It does not speak
the dry mouth
swollen tongue

It does not

It does
distant speechless
as the sky

Robert F. Gross is a playwright, director, and poet who currently lives in Rochester, New York but is preparing to hop a freighter to Hamburg. His work has recently appeared in Wilde Oats, Danse Macabre, BoySlut and Philosophy After Dark. 

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