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Thomas Lux Poems
"I Love You Sweatheart"
A man risked his life to write the words. A man hung upside down (an idiot friend holding his legs?) with spray paint to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
More like a vault -- you pull the handle out and on the shelves: not a lot, and what there is (a boiled potato in a bag, a chicken carcass
A Library Of Skulls
The Man Into Whose Yard You Should Not H...
each day mowed and mowed his lawn, his dry quarter acre, the machine slicing a wisp from each blade's tip. Dust storms rose
One wave falling forward meets another wave falling forward. Well-water, hand-hauled, mineral, cool, could be a kiss, or pastures
A Little Tooth
Your baby grows a tooth, then two, and four, and five, then she wants some meat directly from the bone. It's all
The artisans of this room, who designed the lamp base (a huge red slug with a hole where its heart should be) or chose this print of a butterscotch sunset,
Henry Clay's Mouth
Senator, statesman, speaker of the House, exceptional dancer, slim, graceful, ugly. Proclaimed, before most, slavery an evil, broker
Marine Snow At Mid-Depths And Down
As you descend, slowly, falling faster past you this snow, ghostly, some flakes bio- luminescent (you plunge,
They are, the surfaces, gorgeous: a master pastry chef at work here, the dips and whorls, the wrist-twist squeezes of cream from the tube
Unlike, For Example, The Sound Of A Ript...
gnawing through a shinbone, a high howl inside of which a bloody, slashed-by-growls note is heard, unlike that sound, and instead, its opposite: a barely sounded
The Road That Runs Beside The River
follows the river as it bends along the valley floor, going the way it must. Where water goes, so goes the road,
One sweet pound of filet mignon sizzles on the roadside. Let's say a hundred yards below the buzzard. The buzzard sees no cars or other buzzards
How, in the first place, did they get torn-pulled down hard too many times: to hide a blow, or sex, or a man
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
"I Love You Sweatheart"
A man risked his life to write the words.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
a highway. And his beloved,
the next morning driving to work...?
His words are not (meant to be) so unique.
Does she recognize his handwriting?
Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before
of "something special, darling, tomorrow"?
And did he call her at work
expecting her to faint with delight
at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?
She will know I love her now,