6
I’d take out a loan
to get at those nachos—
yes to jalapeños
7
Out-of-town scoreboard
illuminates the moon—
pennant race deepens
8
Only one of these teams
will see October—
nighthawks catch flies under lights
9
Oh, why couldn’t we
have scored some runs earlier—
closer warming
10
Father and son speechless
at a game in June.
Pitcher comes up lame again.
6
Pure black
laced with violets—
nothingness.
7
Stop
forest fires, fight
lightning—
8
My robes torn,
slowly I descend
the mountain.
9
Even God laughed
when the preacher
told us jokes.
10
No-one can resist
gossip in your cafés—
oh, Paris.
A fish jumped and
I remembered
what it was like
jumping off
the low-dive and
landing on my belly.
Over yonder a tree
on its side
that the beaver hauled down.
A bird.
Until it drops,
until it alights silently
in the extended arms
of the willow.
A thousand lightning bugs
once invisible sting the
twilight like branding irons.
Soon it will be dark,
though the moon
(I’m sure)
grows brighter.
1
The distant percussion
of a woodpecker—
Let’s make ice cream!
2
Asleep on the edge
of the bed,
marriage is not for cynics
3
Sitting here waiting
for the coming disease,
smoking my cigarette
4
Moon bright enough
to read your poems by,
the yard aglow with dew
5
Sunflowers
break the cloudbank,
feeding eagles
by Thom Kortkamp once, we childrenset out together on the golden roadacross big prairie… among the stalks of goldenrod& queen anne’s lace,hands rose: pale & insipid,menacing our flanks swiftly along to the mothertree haven on thin soilfallen branches caressingbeing consumed by buttery … Continue reading last winter’s quest
Here I am hanging onto your wretchedly wonderful world.
1
Complete games
aren’t what they used to be—
bullpens exploding
2
Pitcher wipes his brow,
sun peaks out from clouds—
there goes the runner!
3
It’s lonely on the bench
when you’re pitching well—
no-hitter brewing
4
Ash tree gave its life
for a thousand home runs—
Hall of Fame material
5
It’s past my bedtime
but I’ll listen all night—
extra innings
The artillery moanof a gas-drunk Ditch Witchrents this peaceful afternoonas muscled men set it looseupon my restless neighbor'sgreen, complacent yard.They take turns chewing up the ground,carving out a magazine walkway,lining the gash with shale.And the sod that grew so willinglysits balled-up in a dumpster,growing stale.
To you, this cabernet:But not for my walletI couldn’t have bought it.Its complexion of garnet,and suggestion of leather,leave me drunk and unfit,and you light as a feather.
by Thom Kortkamp endless trains plow underthese hills of rusty clay pulled by a teamof mournful donkeys the whistle bray echoes among black tongue cattle circling turkey vultures tidy the roads,protect … Continue reading things gone without
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