Peter Merrington Poems

Means the direst love. She strokes,
folds up all leaves, limbs, dimples,
downy cheeks. Stretches, nestles,
draws to her valance. She calls,
...

The animals brought in,
thin hands cleaned,
lamps lit. The table laid,
blinds drawn, feet washed,
...

These hot dog-days: seedpods crack like
gunshot, tin roofs glint and wink where
people sleep this autumn Sunday off to
summer’s fading. Those dreams of sand,
...

It barely thundered halfway. Caught like a cough,
a fist smashed into cloth, choked air. Lead is the softest,
heavy grey scumbling of the downpipes clogged with
leaves.
...