Richard Lord

I walk to the edge of the long road
Which is swollen, I mean swollen,
With too many memories.
I wanted to give most of them away
...

Let the ghosts gnaw on your hearts,
sour and brittle,
for giving them this miser's feast:
cheapest paper coated with
...

When the women come by with their blood smells
Alive in the chalky morning,
He is right at their smiles like a tiny, quick bird,
His black, dotted eyes saying 'mornings' and 'evenings'.
...

Sing, old man, those true songs of fire,
Songs that were too old for this air
Before you yourself were ever born.
Hammer those words against the night
...

Trotsky, in a MacDougall St. coffehouse,
Appears tired, annoyed, gets irritable,
Leaves his game with old Josef Hurvitz
After only thirteen moves
...