Seven
Poems
Bill
Dunlap
1.
We
walk on water
so
infrequently.
And
secretly,
for
water is insensible
and
we, embarrassed,
know
miracles
are
checkbooks
for
fools.
2.
Mortality
brews the infinite.
Dreams
fill gaps like pipe
across
a dead space.
And
between two numbers
a
life might sink – without
resurrection
upon division.
3.
I’ve
carved a life
alone –
in
inward caves
exploring.
The
hollowed arch
I
fear
or
terminus
in
pools
nonintoxicant.
4.
My
body is a bridge decaying.
Mind
remains a newer home –
time
refurbishes as it passes.
But
mind is body’s secret –
when
spans collapse
windows
darken.
5.
The
idea of pain
might
be the hand.
Mouth
speaks to finger,
finger
points to loss.
Fist
holds darkness,
feeds
it to the heart.
6.
Will
you show me shining in the spotlight,
drinking
poison, or tight inside
the
coffin? All three the same
but
time it takes for makeup.
My
shame is gone now.
That’s
how we live now.
But
in the grave
I’ll
behave – for centuries
7.
Read
a volume in a face.
Trace
lineament as ligature
to
some past shock that
distorts
forever – in a moment.
Or
in the corners of a mouth
find
a store of secrets.
But
you’ll probably be wrong.
The
face tells an orphan’s tale
and
only the owner knows
if
this hollowness is fit with time
or
born that day –
that
heaven died.
Bill
Dunlap works
mostly as a painter. He is online at BillDunlap.com.