David Michael Lippman

Pocket i keep so many small things hidden in my pocket little memories, receipts, judgement calls spare change i pull out when i'm poor. i have a knife there too though it is often used on the inside not on the out and i cannot find my favorite pieces because i've scattered them about i keep receipies of my favorite flavors and try to taste them over again but don’t you see, they only rot staying in my pocket and i keep a key to the world, so that i can lock it out. and no one will find my favorite things because i've scattered them about.

blood and song it was a small song but written in blood and timelessness. it sang beyond itself and sent ripples over years to those whose ears yearned for the hearing… and, in doing so, you’ve dipped me in wisdom like candle wax and i am sealed and secure waiting for a wick so i might burn forever— calming me with words meant only for me yet stretching to the very sanctuary of time, where many like me sit and sip and pine for forever, in moment by moment day until in the brilliance of light wave after wave they come like an unfinished army asking for robes and white clothing we stand on a precipice waiting for a voice to call us onward yet the distance is ever too far for us to cover so we wait, for a face we’ve never seen to meet us eye to eye and thank us for a work we never performed and carry us in youthful flight into the light of early morn, rising like a phoenix in the west! and i, still in time, (a little box, a daily rhyme) think on this and am blessed learning of a