Richard Rawson

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Richard Rawson Poems


Listening for this voice you say you heard -
Understood once in sleep, or a shadow burned
Neuron deep - loose, floating, uncollected -
You connected to the beat

Bridge Repair At Night

Funneled from toll to span
by cones
flanks exposed
blinded by oncoming.

Heathen Sunday

And now I call it a sacrament:
An incantation, a swing of the censer,
A rush of holy water into a glass.
I say: The ale is at my right hand,

Spider Hole

We sat thigh-to-thigh in our spider hole,
and elbow-to-elbow took our drink.
We laughed and whispered in our spider hole,
blinds drawn, walls pale and indistinct.

Tell Me

We don’t like to meet in daylight,
where the sun pinks-up our pallor,
its luminance too bright.

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