Thomas Boberg Poems

Hands that clench into fists around the pure air
and dance on the dirty wall in the light from the halogen lamp
and resemble childhood that bizarre valley
...

All it takes is one more gleam
Suddenly there's nothing left to stand on ceremony.
The entire mess is pelted with light.
...

The lense is my eye and my weapon
He, on the other hand, lacked a filter
He interpreted his surroundings
...

I just sit harmlessly hoping
and thud there it falls
what was that she shouts
...

The cathedrals beg for respite
but the ravaged ones on the stair steps
what do they think
...

It's the dryness that affects me
It's the smoke in the bar when the girls have gone home
It's the schools after the sun
...

He's like four hands
exchanging secret letters
under the table
...

Past the benches' bundles
and the holes in the earth the workers left
...

After closing time there is always
a scraping at the orb's hollow rim
electric beneath the window
...