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.
...

Slick
with
naked
flying
...