Ryan Cole Poems

See the poet, hard at work

grumbling and scribbling and drinking his tea
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Raven in the parking lot

Saunters about as he looks for food
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I walk through these desert hills

beside a highway
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Irises

covering the foot of your bed
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She laughs over the phone
I used to live to make her laugh
Maybe that was the only thing
I was ever good at
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See the girl about to fall

Dancing on the wire of her desperation
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She is the shadows
in a film noir
The mist across the street lamp
on a London night
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I would make you my religion
and worship at the temple of your body
Taking communion from your lips, your breast, your thighs
I would die in you
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I see her happy and I think

of all the chances I never had
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Dried flower petals

Turned to red dust in the folds of a pocket of a thriftstore jacket
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