LAMENTATION
All affairs without mind are now trivial
and the sound of the rail petulant
time is not a muse
it is burrowing somewhere
without blossoms
and the branches
flowers and unkind gazes
sear the ready silence
a bitter orange is glass
waning twilight asphalt
the rest sleep sound on broken benches
—
IT IS LETTING THE PAGES SLIDE THROUGH YOUR FINGERS
The chambers of wind-beaten poetry
Too much wine
Wood dipped in chocolate
Ghosts of beggars entertaining xenophobes
On crowded streets
—
GESTURE
I rap my finger on the bar
a single drink
hours beside a girl
two chairs
on the ceiling of
so many
horizons
you confide in me
a weary silence
—
SO TANGIBLE A WONDER IS LIGHT
Concealing
idle brilliance
the lonely failure of a single
chime
or cost of
early
entrance
to the body
in limbo
we are innocent
—
DEATH OF THE ARTIST
at last alone
with your horrible devices
the recession of skin
the lightness of hair
no pity
no regalia
just the swell of the wave
and the mist
of shade
wind
and trash
—
A.R. Francis was born in Baltimore, Maryland and currently lives in New York City. His previous work has appeared in Black Heart Magazine, Glassworks, and Dovetail.
