Yellow, Self-Reflecting


The late insects are trading places, the breath
of one left behind for the breath of another.

I’m almost inside the hole that I have created.

Death says, It’s a small room
you live in, Body. Come out and play.

There’s an absence coming from the window.
The air is a hinge in a huge discrepancy.

It’s a secret. I don’t even know it myself.

The skies part. The water’s upon me.
It feels like only me, and I reel back, caught
by the lure of something beyond my surface.

Somewhere nearby there’s an endless war.
The rain still fills its empty bowls.

I wonder if the leaves have forgiven me yet.

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About Rich Ives


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Rich Ives has received grants and awards from the National Endowment for the Arts, Artist Trust, Seattle Arts Commission and the Coordinating Council of Literary Magazines for his work in poetry, fiction, editing, publishing, translation and photography. His writing has appeared in Verse, North American...read more Review, Massachusetts Review, Northwest Review, Quarterly West, Iowa Review, Poetry Northwest, Virginia Quarterly Review, Fiction Daily and many more. He is the 2009 winner of the Francis Locke Memorial Poetry Award from Bitter Oleander. An interview and18 hybrid works appear in the Spring 2011 issue of Bitter Oleander. In 2011 he has been nominated twice for Best of the Net.
3 comments
Discussion
  24 months ago
hinge in a huge discrepancy----very nice can almost hear its ungreased squeal
  2 years ago
An Enjoyable read, Rich.
  2 years ago
Oh I think this is wonderful

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