Christian Carbone

the long haunting dirge
one endless note of the
organ as they walk to the
mass grave the only black
...

silver metal as
soft as ice cream
resting thoughtless
on brown peach skin
...

In the bliss of silence
there is an open window
next to sheets filled with
wine & dried skin
...

Ice is water
frozen in time
a thief sleeping
in its lifted fluidity
...

there are different types
of being tired some
good & some not so much
the kind of tired from a hard
...

running up the street
from then till now
...

I have no idea
about most all
of these things
bales of questions
...

I’m staring at a set
of keys on the table
by the front door
the place they are
...

Heartbreak is a bike with
no handles, it is adrift
and confused, thoughts never
quite clear, more slanted
...

The simple tends to be
The truest in fate and relations
not knotted or over exerted
Lips soft human grace
...

I misread your intentions
I mislead your concern
I misdirected my foibles
I misinterpreted your anger
...

maybe you've done this
too
maybe you are like me
the way you were then
...

This feeling started coming
to me after you passed
I don't have a definite idea of
why it began
...