Paul Kesler Poems
The sky is a greater musician than I:
the rains plays pizzicato on the rooftops
with no sign of fatigue;
clouds hit every note I miss
on my aging piano,
and crush my seasoned flourishes
with glissandos of thunder
and chords of ragged lightning.
I have taught you the
choreography of love,
the dance steps of passion;
the sly tilt of your head
as the rolled notes flow from your throat.
But nothing flows to me,
though the poses you strike,
like the lightning's fitful flashes,
compel the night sky to respond. ...
Hand Of Glory
fleshly calyx forged in sorcery,
glows as the torpid body
sleeps on a tousled bed.
Little knows the severed hand
what murderous schemes its parent body
carved in life,
or that its transmigration now