Into the dying day
a little boy that can speak to snakes
a tree that spills no leaves
a familiar scent whiffed as you flee into an unknown part of town
Meant to be?
Or just another lapse of the peculiar
understated understanding of the way things are
or should be?
One of the great regrets of my life is not trying
or not trying hard enough
Choose the form of your redemption
Is intention beside the point ?
Teach me about wintergrass
One: a quiet place
Sing to me about the nighttime wings
Two: the drawer that served as your first crib
Ignore the rising sun & the sad-eyed day to come
Three: a damp piece of earth no one will ever find again
Home & the will to be withered wayward & free
Give me death in bites sized for my prized decline
small & shrinking
at fault & shrieking
Show me. Show me. Show me.
A.S. Coomer is a writer, musician, and taco fanatic. Novels include Rush’s Deal, The Fetishists, Shining the Light, & The Devil’s Gospel. He runs Lost, Long Gone, Forgotten Records, a "record label" for poetry, and co-edits Cocklebur Press, a micropress for "books that stick." His 12-song studio debut, goddamn it anyway, is available from all major streaming services. www.ascoomer.com