Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

erbacce-press

Connor Stratman

128 pages Perfect Bound!

The outright winner of the 2010 erbacce-prize for poetry!
A brilliant poet from across the pond this is a MUST BUY especially at this bargain price for a full-length collection.

XIV

I made the impression of a neutral face on the
chilled window of the train car. There flew the
images of the tracks and the trees swinging over
the roof, the sailor tied to the girl on his shoulder,
the way the afternoon winter sun leaks, not pours
down the tops of buildings and the leaves, the old
smoke reversing into the air, blending into the gray
of the big cold, the way I step off on the platform.

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Imported from Ethiopia

The ship stopped short of the shore.
Somehow you remembered to rolls the sails
pouring beans into the sea’s mouth,
our country sanding away forward.

I called from the street, the world turned
with record scratches and pixilation.

I was guilty of spitting against
my crate, the lonesome apartment
drawn in the twenties I now
fear to set on fire. It still stands.

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Postlude: Psalm with Coffee

“Commune with your own heart upon
  your bed, and be still.”   Psalm 4:4

I don’t live safe, and the window spreads
cold in a closed state. Mark me, you cup,
my melting ice, the disappearing music
down the street, the closeness of smoke.

  I am rationing sunlight—
calling in little drops of freezing moisture,
ticketed against the distant electric train
buzzing against snowlight, lifting away
to the park. The chair here low and tight.

I am going to walk home and smell a
vague hallway and touch my rosary.
The cup will be cooling and my own
hands will shake with the absent heat.

And with a medium prayer I’ll
see large, be large. Large like sand.

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To purchase this book click on the cover or if you use PayPal add it to your orange shopping cart...
 

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