Two Poems from James H. Duncan

sub rosa

intangible you linger
hinting to my heart some
future indiscretion,
a romantic pall
that can never exist

the winds have taken you
like dried leaves, husks
of lost cornrows deep in November,
they rattle and haunt, they gather
in the deepest warrens
beneath the skin
beneath the ribs
where the cold nights
do not give up their desperate grip

your echo stains the walls
your eyes have become shades of my own
your scent too often
found on too many belongings:
a letter, a remaining hair in an unread book,
a faded veil crumbling
in the moonlight

even the dying mantis will ask:
will we know that pure energy again?
can we still measure the beating of a heart
with blind instrumentation?

beyond this blanket of rods and cones
the wind blows rough over unfertile
ground and leafless trees,
there is only one ear
to the dry fountain wall, listening for a murmur,
a tremble of blood, a filament of hope,
listening for the crossing over of hushed energy
from one unlived life to another
hearing only one echo

deny our secret; I dare you




Witnesses

waiting with a flower
in the airport.
your steps, my eyes
a clock sounds
a cat blinks
the bottles align
a thicket shivers in solitude
your violet shoes
my steps, your eyes
I extend the flower to you
and feel the weight of it
noting the angle and your lips
and in the final hush,
all eyes turn and suddenly

see


James H Duncan is a New York native, part-time Taoist, and editor of Hobo Camp Review. Although a graduate of Southern Vermont College, he considers himself a lifelong student of the road, picking up non-credit courses in local dive bars, all-night cafes, and used book stores. Slipstream, Red Fez, Poetry Salzburg Review, Reed Magazine, and The Battered Suitcase, among others, have welcomed his poetry. Bird War Press released his fourth collection, "Maybe a Bird Will Sing," in June of 2009. More at www.jhdwriting.com



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