Poetry By
Ed Shacklee
Published on: 3/16/2012
The Night Circus
Against the wall the hands become a hound, and then a dark giraffe with just a twist. The chiaroscuro animals aren't bound, but bond and pair while perched upon the wrist. Two questions posed and answered in the night that solve the dark in moments when they tryst, entwined as they are redefined by light while blooming from the shadow of a fist.
Published on: 3/16/2012
Veteran
Slick as Death himself, on moonless nights he'd steal from bed to bed, and ear to ear he'd carve his grin across their sleeping throats, to leave the rest in aftershocks of fear. And when they chased him, traps; and when they tracked him, smoke; and had they ever caught him, lies. Like fear, death disappeared when he came back alive, although it stayed within his eyes. But after they would seek him in return, and certain nights they'd catch him, or almost, to leave him numb or flinching with the dawn and toss O'Banion home to us a ghost.
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