James McLain Poems

Night can't wake, dawn moves them up;
and twilight moves to pass day by.
Where upon this road it makes us high.
Why do our eyes refuse to see, what few
...

They went home together,
and each and every,
night with many more there after.
...

A wrinkle.
Now barely perceptible.
Being perceived.
Is to banish it.
...

Her lovelies,
as she grew up
and waiting.
...

My Death A Mask, for life
And by the choosing of it
Latter for your selves
A few beds left unmade.
...

She fights to remain on her feet,
and you/me known as it over bred.
A certain passion badly placed for cheese or being the best.
I heat the goat's milk on your furnace and
...

Its eyes roll upwards
during
it pushes in its mouth of waiting,
its body in the spasms.
...

Sometimes it would allow a release,
and milk would draw through the bed
gushing white-hot.
It insane was led with the desire and blindness.
...

the ashamed crime of poetry it writing.
writing of poetry
should obviously never not be
encouraged - when and increasingly
...