done

i think i’ve finally dug
my last post-hole
the rest now will be
a steady, deliberate
mixing of cement

slowly setting the posts erect
heavy staple, and wire
barbed; what i’d set
in years gone now
acres and rows

to keep the wild-things out
never a truly infallible
,as these things are
for only a thimbleful of determination
the spaces between could be made a window
.dying

is a young man’s game
and i’m done
letting

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

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you people

what(be
-cause invited i sit
my thousand poems
cushioned neatly underneath
&converse
that not a madman here is
battling constant inhabitation
you
dreamily
exfoliate charms
in an obvious attempt at at-
tention

baiting a lengthy(albeit perfundant)
verbose
epic
ignored, politely stir my tea
no thanksyes please

the crust of bread is fine

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

better

have un-screwed the shelves my
emotional bric-a-brac now warms
the floor register
yes this
generic metaphor unmantled have,
i
grown to a -morphosed fly
from maggot. This is the way
of salt-cured wounds
fail
learn
,fail better

found a lipstick’d wineglass you
forgot to mention

yesterday

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

black rose

would we
as children, recognize
each other

did not then know what
for looking was, i

a reason?)in these
forests, in sweetsmelling
streams –
turning to footfalls
in spring frost, see

a dream for a thing different
than any other
grown
to its natural

,or in itself despairing
singular
beauty

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

barefoot in the yard

i
adore cemeteries though
seldom speak
of them outside of metaphors

or
trying to preserve the features
of her memory
in a country house
delicates on the laundryline
cat
licking songbird from its paws
belly sun warmed
in the grass

attic full of empty boxes stuffed
with forgetting, do you imagine
as i do
she humms to herself
a thing like a rhyme
remembered
barefoot
in the yard

between the clothespegs
there
in all the textures of
an instant

without fading

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.

living and dying

destroyed
when recreated waiting
hammock afternoons
no
bugnets catching
rainbows no storms, no
heavy
books&musty dust
i have in many
leafs
of paper pencil shavings
crumpled ideas
wrinkled elbows

history told
in desk topographies
staring
down
the horizon destroyed

waiting

© Emerys Watchel, 2018 All rights reserved.