Make Me Feel Believable strung out on silence in a Merton kind of way without a cross in my arm without being buried in Kentucky’s blue hills where a coalminer’s Christ sanctified sweat dripped off a monk’s prayer axe. If I consecrate wafers of no, pray to yes, then swallow, what if I do that?
Screen Door Speaking Softly We agreed, the unexpected did not expect the silence to be thick as a glaciers tongue considering the tropical history of hearts the world believed we inhabited. Nodding our heads like horses in heat as the snowy field held our hooves like hands blessing the body of Christ, we waited outside the bloodshot barn of evening’s expectation, waited for cruelty to call it a day, maybe even a life.
Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems are forthcoming in Chiron Review, The American Journal of Poetry, The Bitter Oleander, Plainsongs Magazine, Blue Mountain Review and Drunk Monkeys Magazine. He is the author of ‘Boys’ (Duck Lake Books) and “Waxing the Dents” (Brick Road Poetry Press)
Grand Little Things 