Francis Santaquilani Poems

swing, swing

on a yellow swing,
...

will the sun ever set?
then nightlights will burn
like the sun,
the myriad stimuli are suns as well,
...

A fixture now in my garage's gape.
Grateful for my coffeemug hand.
Old sawdust and powdery snow blow
Through the ghost of my hammering hand
...

The pleasure was never mine,

My near friend. But
...

on the riverbank

in mist
...

Echoes and
The blue jay sorties
Suddenly cease.
One last battle cry
...

we don't miss his head.

we don't recall the color of his eyes
...

You think I go to spain

To buy you clementines.
...