I love how songs grow from talk
in Hollywood musicals
like ‘Carousel’, for instance,
and think, maybe, that’s how we should be
in our writing, loose and organic,
let the words, when they pulse with life,
grow feathers and spread their wings
as poems up and down the page
the musky glow of the candle bowl
the frisson of flesh on flesh
the cinnamon zing of Venetians
crosswords over coffee
Joaquin Phoenix singing Cry, Cry, Cry
the ineffable sadness of Jackson because we both
know people like that
the voice of Johnny Cash, proof that there’s a God
Rick Springfield on Gospel Radio speaking to the sky
& those blackbirds, after rain, bless their untidy little hearts.
The bite
Of frost
In the air;
The breath
Of winter
On my neck
those icy
Innuendoes
down the pike,
The touch
Of winter
In yr text
John Malone 