Michael DiSciullo


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Best Poem of Michael DiSciullo

On The Cusp

She is a precious singularity,
Alone in a swirl of family, friends.
A modern ascetic.

Not spoiled; simply unprepared
to be what he believes she could be.

He says, 'Wily.'
She says, 'Weak.'

He misses her touch,
She misses a phantom.

He cries softly,
She cries foul.

At the end of her driveway
and the end of his rope.
He will burn this village in order to save it.

Read the full of On The Cusp

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