Fred Rik Kesner Poems

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Late afternoon carries its usual drift,
a few steps folding into the next crossing,
someone adjusting their bag as they pass,
a shopfront glow shifting when the door swings wide.
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Morning comes softer now.
You rise without rushing,
the house no longer waiting
for your first move.
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open page


A faint shift moves along the skirting,
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A stray raggamuffin breeze skitters through the yard,
catching on the rags left drying on the line—
each one a small refusal, a frayed rebuttal
to the tidy doctrines the elders once stitched.
...

One stares across the fading yard,
Where autumn gnaws the rusting gate.
The days once raced now stumble hard,
And every hour arrives too late.
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'crosscurrent morning'


Streetcar wires shivering above the block,
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'Backward Carriage, Early Draft of a Life'


The train shudders
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'melded roads'


They stay with me.
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...learning the ceiling
before the floor
—how a day is shaped,
or air keeps its measure,
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