Death of the amateur
I walk the streets with nothing
to do but think outside
I weather myself
so sleepy I cannot hold open my eyes
and must be buried
in some profession
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
Ramification
night gains all
the branches
of my body
as small and intricate
as any clock
Global positioning
cold full of doors
not so much a church as a paper chamber
I place myself in the world
among books and spoons
a box leased for my office
sin and prayers
Temp worker
the morning I have off
I tend to my sand home
wipe and clean my thin ice
Place setting
the place for a book against plate
spoons and forks
God and Caesar
who lays out fruit
for Father Christmas
and where but at the door to evening
reckoning with cold and wind
Actualization
on any peak
the din of ice
no little up and off again
The year’s midnight
I become a disciple
to the night to see
how things are in the world
of the mole
never mind my heart
Serv/ice
ice is at the core
of an afternoon church
I drew a sun with
as little a prayer as a top
Propitiation
the Dow down
the river is red with light
a late rite
Sylvanian
no place or nature at all
prevented disquiet
or the count of commodities
so spoke the old wood
in my fallen ear
Reference point
where a flock
has troubled the fields
I drink alone
glad to see the town
way in the distance
Emotion vs. insight
a red rave is good
seeming to be an art
to ice all pain
but ink comes only
from the night
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