g r a v e l

Blessed are the Handfuls

 

The rain made creekbeds of the coltrane railway tracks, and 

wooden sleepers, water to their ears, sit still impossibly parallel.

 

The mill is gone, but the wind and river

(my unpalatable right, your left) remain.

 

To whom the earth

if the meek do not want it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Right, Your unpalatable Leftovers 

 

despite her maraschino slow-death, 

in his sleep her body was a park he liked to stand in.

the warming cottage roof melting footstep-drops

around and round, so that he lay awake, ready

to be pushed away as though tasting like frozen 

strawberries she was too tired to want to eat- 

 

as though he city-whistled some defrosted lovesong

while an unrequited distance clothed her like a name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tin Can Blues

 

hey kid,

you've got

the heart of a tin can

that never made it

on to that just-married train.

Instead you booked it strait 

to some midwestern landfill

with dead lavender in your pockets

and a nice ass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walden Burning

 

what a lot of people need is

         a friend

who isn't going to kiss them-

what I need is a pair 

                 of steel-toed boots.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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About the Poet: After a childhood spent in Belgium and Germany, Collin Garrity moved to Asheville, NC to attend Warren Wilson College. He now lives in Savannah Georgia where he works as a woodworker, and spends much of his time writing and admiring art.