David Kowalczyk Poems

You breath like a poodle.
Your veins are dry.
You are haunted by a
past perceived as omniscient.
...

All Soul's Day.
November morn full of fog and the
anxious cries of starlings.
April March pouts out the streaked
...

Words.


Bloodless assassins
...

dandelion eyes
a deck of cards
a field of burning moss
...

The sad eyes
of a mildewed newspaper
found in your cellar.
...

Every Friday during Lent,
in every linoleum-floored diner
in every blue-highwayed town,
The Last Supper is re-enacted.
...

Some fall apart
too soon.
...

Approaching Penelope's bed,
home's meaning enters
a wandering heart.
...