David Earnhardt
David Earnhardt Poems
They stand on boards of rotting porch
still holding hands in withered flesh.
Wind flings her dress side to side.
...
He thinks he knows you, this stranger,
hand
already outstretched,
approaching,
...
My hands are mollusks
on this keyboard,
the sound of them typing
the hatching of silence
...
Earth: the persistence of mass.
Fire: the claws of the spirit.
Water: the sustaining skin
between sleep and animal vitality.
...
The Best Poem Of David Earnhardt
Pastoral
They stand on boards of rotting porch
still holding hands in withered flesh.
Wind flings her dress side to side.
Hair he has dances on furrows of his forehead.
In the yard the assessor is speaking backward
or something; still...
He doesn't laugh, She doesn't cry...
It's a pity the foreign one knows
no better than to call on ghosts.
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12/15/2025 8:20:44 PM # 1.0.0
