Max Stark Poems

The woods are waiting.
If they have to,
They'll wait forever.
They don't mind.
...

Friday nights they orbited in a Nova or Galaxy,
light years from that heavenly body
they tried to scope out through the tinted glass.
Over and over, they thought they might have found her.
...

Old men wear clothes ill befitting their stature.
Threads loose, zippers down, cardigans stained,
they know not what they don.
...