The trial run worked as far as keeping the group open, but my heart isn't in it. I'm leaving the galleries up -- but for the foreseeable future, the group is closed.
Thanks for all your support -- and thanks for sharing your lovely, lovely writing.
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FallFall by RichardLeach
Something fell. How could a sound so loud
have been a dream? Yet how could a sound
so loud have left a silence thick as this?
There is so little sound you might be deaf.
You say, "hello," softly, to the dark.
You hear your voice clearly through the air.
The lighted clock says four A.M.
Did something fall? It could have been a dream.
It may have been the picture in the hall.
Why did you hang it with a single nail?
Or was it something not so near as that,
whose size and mass you cannot say?
Was it here in the city, a block away,
a mile? There would be sirens, surely.
Or was it something both near and far -
did a world slip down a stair,
from one step to the one below?
Whose was it, then? Or was it yours alone?
In the morning you will know.
It was not a dream. Something fell.
impress an angelA simple command, but I couldn't decideimpress an angel by Solaces
which of two things you wanted me to do:
teach my fingers how to climb a harp
or wait one more month for winter
so that I can lie down in the snow, face down
my arms spread a flight's distance apart,
leaving Gabriel's broken fall right on your porch.
In the end, I decided to ignore you.
So far there have been no consequences
unless a new-found fear of smelling
like lake water is a punishment.
If I were the person I'm trying not to be,
if I were the writer I'm trying not to be,
I would grow a pair of wings and fly right now,
but I'm trying to make it out here grounded.
It's a simple challenge.
All I have to do is resist the tips of my toes
and my imagination that wants
to move the clouds into a spiral staircase.
Aurora Borealis is out looking like a flight of attic steps,
but I've nothing to hide up there.
Tonight I'm trying to impress an angel
with my coy little courtship.
It's no song and it's no dance,
it's no feather behind my ear
or a sunset
7.34mmA simple measurement7.34mm by pseudometry
can make a man
lose himself; a blurring, no more
than a grainy smudge
a scant 7.34mm long
this rice-grain, seven weeks old
with one hundred and twenty nine
heartbeats per minute
all this, from a mere sesame-seed of a heart
Water For TeaHe was glossy with sweat,Water For Tea by riparii
he was streaked brown.
He was unexpected.
Something simmered on the stove-
I turned it down for he was there,
in the half-light by the door;
I think it was water for tea.
The air went thick and fathom blue.
There were fingers in dark curls,
there was wet and bubbling warm,
there was bread with butter for tea.
He grew like mystery, like turgid weather.
I drank him like hope, he left pearls on my lips.
There were fingers in dark curls,
there was water for tea.
In the heartIn the heart by RichardLeach
In the heart, doubts
In the doubts, a small room
In the small room, a table
On the table, a map being soaked by rain
On the table
In the small room
In the doubts
In the heart
Question and Answers"Where did the time go?" you asked me.Question and Answers by RichardLeach
Oh so very many places.
Some to the vinyl of an LP record
you may never play again but would
not part with, and if you played it now,
side one then two, and let the needle run
in from the last groove of music toward the label,
to rest there as the record spun,
you would hear time tick.
Some learned to play the guitar and is in a subway
station in Boston playing and singing with an open
guitar case at its feet; most people pass by,
but some listen briefly and toss money
and a few stop to listen for a while -
it is then time plays its own songs
and you can hear time sing.
Some has never left your side, it goes with you
where you go and when you go to bed at night
it lies down on the floor beside the bed
to rest its great head on its immense paws
and watch over you without sleeping -
if you woke in the night and listened
you would hear time breathe.
Some made its way to the last page
of the last book in your bookshelves,
and it will always be on the
Phantom Limbs.I believe in trash. In plastic, in orange peels.Phantom Limbs. by claytonwoolery
The bit of waxy wrapper stuck to the chocolate.
The gristly fat, the wasted bits.
I worship garbage bags bulging, their black skin pushed out
By metal hangars and tree limbs.
I am controlled by the shadows. The shifting
Leaves leave them on my face and my lamp can't
Quite get them out of corners. They hide under everything.
I am older in the dark.
I pray to ghosts.
I've grown a phantom limb.
Inside, the hurt of nothing being where it once
The regret of it. Crushed hearts and soda cans on
The side of a oneway street, eternally forked.
The broken promises and beer bottles cutting into
The soles of feet, leaving gashes to ooze out
Dark, dark bloods. I never want to see again a
Pristine lover or car, they wreck and cause sore
I killed my emotions, flying in white sheets
with chains clanking. The prison of prisoners.
Predicting and stopping the wind.
Putting a falle
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