Letters From Glanmore

If you are shaking in anticipation; awaiting the arrival of a maverick set of poetry; hoping, here, now, for a full websites worth of new poems–then I apologize (I wanted my anti-climactic moment to be an anti-climax). I have for you one poem. One. Not, as the title may suggest, several “Letters” but a poem of many letters, different types, all together.

You should read on. 


Letters From Glanmore


Vowels hang in the brass throats of wind chimes;

 An open note. Strung together.

Tinker and verb; Earth-song.


I have said it before:

You cannot coax the wind.


Syllable’s break at the bending of their wires.

The letter L hooped into a tire

Is a fragile O crying cursive,

Until, upon itself it is shut in.

Break the bone of meaning

And the mantle crumples;

Constancy is formed inside the corners

Of valley and steeple.

The fractured spine of pitchfork

And choir ploughs the land.

The words break the ground—

Open again.

Everlasting, the arms of language

Sprout, distend. 


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