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.
