Poetry Archives
 
S.M.Page
Poetry from Volume 7 Issue 1
 

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You contained me in your universe,
fed me, educated me, bedded me in slippery

sheets, removed my blankets as I slept.
I needed not to leave you except to star gaze.

You were red, and crushed apples along
a stream frozen save for bursting rocks.

Stealing me away from I, we spoke,
and coffeed, lingering over berry pie.

A pearl is round and smooth and lustrous,
Yet your floors slant and porously grit.

You slam doors and disturb dreams,
enter without knocking, give me no key to lock

.
Your slide-shows warmed the cold church,
And articulated metaphor, design, and thought.

Without a vehicle I walked to your boundaries,
but without boots was unable to tread the tracks

loosed with snow, so kept to muddied roads.
If I was lucky, I wormholed to tomorrow,

and if I was vigilant, was swallowed
into a black hole of trees and mountains and zero

air, icing my tongue, restructuring me limitless
of travel, infinating gravity's negation.

Untitled

You were my first house away
from home, a cave in rock, a spacious
studio equipped with showered bathroom,
utensiled kitchen, bedded loft.

You blew the bus off the road,
clouded me in a bury of snow,
stole one suitcase, hid my computer,
threw me in a bar with strangers.

Gold was no longer mined
beneath the saddle's silver seat,
so we redly walked, jackly
danned, sodaed water till closing.

You vended cheeseburgers thickly
condimented, and crusted only pizza,
for competition french-fried
years ago, busting inexpensive bottles.

You were kind with vernacular story
fodder: I found time to be
with you, even with time with
me; and them, they the buildings.

The only real continental  mountains,
the others foot hills: we climbed them
seven times that night, you shouldered with
my jacket, I a thrown backseat blanket.

You drove me through the two mother veins,
into one I thirdly marched with green
boots, hiking after you bounced
me out with beer on my lips.

After two years you finally webbed
me, carded me freely, elked me
breakfast sausage; yet she stagged
me with antlered replies.

While ancient letters crumbled,
you helped me reconstruct them:
we discovered shacks abandoned, shells
of trees, ancestors who wore marble.

I washed my clothes in whore-house
porcelain, hung them with noosed
hemp, slept with gas unlit, warmed
myself only in wood.

S.M.Page "...gened and grew in Michigan, but rambled a large segment of his life overseas." During his wandering he sometimes attended Columbia University and barely graduated magna cum laude. His first book, The Timbre of Sand, was published by Gorrión Press. His prose and poetry have appeared in Bravura, Piedmont Literary Review, and Quatro. He now writes from a telephone pole-view room in Argentina.