Dean Faulwell
2 poems
**
The Courage To Fix and Feel
Thinner, even, than one of those
invisible mistakes you find in Schnabel's
portrait of God, yet able
to leap over consciousness
at a single bound.
It almost makes you wish
for an additional peephole
to peep through while
Cynthia's undressing.
Almost. But none of the subtle
emphasis you placed on everyone's
obsession had made it over
to where we were all standing.
In a circle, actually, facing
outward and with hands
joined. Or was this, too,
a mistake? As with everything else,
it's impossible to say and
hardly worth mentioning
in any case. There is too much
that still needs to be feigned,
the door slamming
that once opened into night,
the delicate sound of several
wrong decisions being made
for the umpteenth time.
Everyone born of woman dies,
the genius of the mirror notwithstanding.
**
Bridges Of Absence
Unattended acolytes
drop from a beautiful country.
My sister, whose name
turns white when you say it,
will meet us at the moment
of steep dozing. The body's
windows open to be washed.
Whatever we say
in favor of danger
arrives in a cardboard kit.
Sunrise may mark its beginning
(it always seems to)
whose waiting wishes half of us in half.
**
return to sawbuck 1.4
**
Dean Faulwell has published previously in The American Poetry Review, Chelsea, Conduit, Happy, The Paris Review, & Poetry Now. He has poems forthcoming in Alembic, The Midway Journal, & Slab.
**
The Courage To Fix and Feel
Thinner, even, than one of those
invisible mistakes you find in Schnabel's
portrait of God, yet able
to leap over consciousness
at a single bound.
It almost makes you wish
for an additional peephole
to peep through while
Cynthia's undressing.
Almost. But none of the subtle
emphasis you placed on everyone's
obsession had made it over
to where we were all standing.
In a circle, actually, facing
outward and with hands
joined. Or was this, too,
a mistake? As with everything else,
it's impossible to say and
hardly worth mentioning
in any case. There is too much
that still needs to be feigned,
the door slamming
that once opened into night,
the delicate sound of several
wrong decisions being made
for the umpteenth time.
Everyone born of woman dies,
the genius of the mirror notwithstanding.
**
Bridges Of Absence
Unattended acolytes
drop from a beautiful country.
My sister, whose name
turns white when you say it,
will meet us at the moment
of steep dozing. The body's
windows open to be washed.
Whatever we say
in favor of danger
arrives in a cardboard kit.
Sunrise may mark its beginning
(it always seems to)
whose waiting wishes half of us in half.
**
return to sawbuck 1.4
**
Dean Faulwell has published previously in The American Poetry Review, Chelsea, Conduit, Happy, The Paris Review, & Poetry Now. He has poems forthcoming in Alembic, The Midway Journal, & Slab.
