Michael Roes Poems

Women are not bleeding birds
and should one strike us
the wound would seep
but water
...

My folly bakes stones. Don't laugh at it

When I addressed you in words as cautious as the
new moon, you invited me to your fire
...

In the beginning using language was
child's play, an art of slips and promises

Not sentences alone could be true or false
From grammars we built small ships
...

They take my rings from me,
but I'm left with my fingers

After prayers the sky is rolled up
and stored in big baskets
...