Francis Santaquilani Poems
|172.||We Are Tigers||10/12/2005|
|175.||What Is It?||2/21/2007|
|176.||Who'Ll Provide The Joy?||10/24/2005|
|178.||Winter Haiku 2||3/7/2007|
|179.||You And Your Day||10/21/2005|
|180.||You Have It Over||10/13/2005|
He's in this room?
He's not being rocked
Side to side.
He's so pale.
He was so brown and
Often red. Strange
To not see him under
The sun, moon and stars.
A white blanket over him.
White sheets under him.
His head floats on a white pillow
Like a fish head on a cushion of
The whitest sea foam.
All of its color washed out to sea.
The wrinkles on his face and neck
And the crinkles around his eyes
Seem ironed out by this artificial light.
His mouth is closed, and
To compete with the gulls
And the ...
E.D. ascend for me always,
Without end, in your kitchen
Suddenly frozen in mid-knead,
Leave your dough to rise,
Toss your apron aside,
Wipe the flour from your hands,
With a fire in your head and
Lock your bedroom door.