D. S. Martin

now thou but stoop’st to me—Ben Jonson The falcon like a teardrop heaven criesfrom higher than the city’s tallest towerdesigned to fall precisely through clear skiesnow hurtles at two hundred miles per hourAt such a speed what keeps her flashing eyesfrom drying out her lungs from ripping . . . . Continue Reading »

On clear cold nights when far stars speckle skies& woodsmoke goes straight up & disappearsa dozen constellations to my eyesare dull blurs when I think back through the yearsto when the angel spoke to us that nightjoined by the brilliant vast angelic choirwhich overcame our senses with such . . . . Continue Reading »

My Grandmother writes of her garden wallflowers & cornflowers from early April showers like beautiful wounds healing across te bed from blue to purple to dark pink to light pink to white & then geraniums in May But she cannot see the geraniums She writes of her garden from the cool of the cellar . . . . Continue Reading »