Thomas Lux Poems
|3.||Plague Victims Catapulted Over Walls Into Besieged City||2/2/2016|
|4.||It's the Little Towns I Like||7/21/2016|
|5.||The Voice You Hear When You Read Silently||12/12/2013|
|7.||He Has Lived In Many Houses||1/13/2003|
|10.||The Road That Runs Beside The River||1/13/2003|
|11.||Unlike, For Example, The Sound Of A Riptooth Saw||1/13/2003|
|13.||Marine Snow At Mid-Depths And Down||1/13/2003|
|14.||Henry Clay's Mouth||1/13/2003|
|17.||The Man Into Whose Yard You Should Not Hit Your Ball||1/13/2003|
|18.||A Library Of Skulls||1/13/2003|
|19.||A Little Tooth||1/13/2003|
|21.||"I Love You Sweatheart"||1/13/2003|
"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,
A Library Of Skulls
Shelves and stacks and shelves of skulls, a Dewey Decimal number inked on each unfurrowed forehead. Here's a skull who, before he lost his fleshy parts and lower bones, once walked beside a river (we're in the poetry section now) his head full of love and loneliness; and this smaller skull, in the sociology stacks, smiling (they're all smiling)