Timothy Pilgrim


be seated, this poem is about to begin.
No run-of-the-mill greeting card rhyme

with lots of pop and pow. More subtle,
nuance lodged in metaphors, meaning

ripped from jagged words, obscure,
like graffiti on a brick wall, scribbled

in black ink, at night. Imagine
an outlaw poet on the run, wounded,

firing blank verse at a posse in pursuit,
missing, putting out the sun.

Hope synchs

Uplifting, the anticipation, so weird
it droops, disappears, gone like drug
to vein, bloody sleeve rolled up

then down again. Chosen path,
moving flat, hopeless keeping right,
bags closed,clutched tight,

let others pass, glide by fast,
intent on flight, the end,
rogue church, meek within.

Perfect time to writhe, pray, sweat
Crème brûlée sin away, hoping
to be granted whatever.

Damp dance

Mountain hike, summer thoughts
join memory — you, me, years ago,
alone, first date, sudden storm.

Sheltered by boughs, we shiver, listen
to rain, for warmth, intertwine.
Each splash becomes a damp dance,

wet pirouette amid tall grass.
Hot breath on cheek, neck,
passing lips, at last, a half-kiss.

One more, deep, full, intense —
bright sun, lull in the squall
bring an end to the beginning

of it all. You glide past puddles
on our path home. I fill each track
in my desire to stay close.

Timothy Pilgrim is a Pacific Northwest poet with acceptances from journals like Seattle Review, San Pedro River Review, Third Wednesday, Cirque, Clover, A Literary Rag, Toasted Cheese, SleetMagazine.com, Otoliths and Windsor Review. He is author of Mapping Water (Flying Trout Press, 2016). His work can be found at timothypilgrim.org.
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