Tim Carlson Poems

She bore a platinum baby,
of one she could be proud.
Her mossy earthen womb,
a misty dew-grey shroud.
...

This I know,
this I dread,
But this I'll know,
when I'm dead,
...

The envious corner,
The combed silence,
Breathing heavily, feeling is dank.
Shivers, that his arm touched mine,
...

Lieing lips,
Burning hearts,
For she does not know.
...

I feel about this small,
a thimbel shaped growth,
unshaped and common.
Who are they? not me,
...

Her shadow licks,
the wall and
straddles the dark.
...

Even her thorns have roses.
Swept into the purity of her smile.
Dreaming, dreaming for her world.
She recites her books aloud, she is infinite.
...

I love her,
but would not do this.
Please preserve that sanctity she breathes.
Like light through a prism,
...

We all feel alone some days,
fretted with anger and emptiness.
What am I but this thing?
a victim of consequence.
...