Leslie Philibert Poems

I cannot suck sleep out of the warm air,
A clothes runner killed before my bed,
Numbers encode the darkness, they are not curved
...

Lots of pink circles; wobble rings
a steadfast porcine; air holes and soft haired ears.
Chops; two legs for a cast iron pot; a baby.
A tail and private bits; scrabble buttocks; a shit maschine.
...

For a few seconds in Columbo; scratching like a cat
at the door of recognition, selling hotdogs as a star
drifts by. Motel curtains that smell of coffee;
a bed full of bottles, dust between his fingers. Cut.
...

Not a cabin banged together with dark wood and nails of stars;
not the ballast in cold ship full of shouts.
Trees are not sewage; ice is not to be loved, not
the darkness nor the cold blanket thrown over dead lovers
...

The sun moves above me
but not in an honest way.
The morning smells of burnt mallow.
...

Bells. Cold air. Damp earth.
Carrying my own coffin as if

divided and watching myself from outside.
...

You are climbing out of the seat of my body;
rising as a small loaf, a scrap of wonder.
Stamped in wax with my ugly mug and running.
Surprised you are broken glass, a bit of face
...

the shining one, sarana, Eva
sister of the moon, April`s burning,
pumps sing in the earth, lights morse
...

Every ten years your head
lands in the tin box.
It is not the vision.
...

ready to bite
a doormat with
a wide grin of silver teeth

and a back with a thousand turns
...