Dawn Sharp

Under the guise of nature
demure little lashes slip free
their descent blends with the wind
and it carries them away, unnoticed.
New lashes grow
but what of the old hymns?
the tears that told
what of the gaze that stayed?
that instinctual hold.

It's stuck inside
poems sent by post
that the postman keeps for his wife instead.
The sides dripping sweat
meant for lovers sheets
weaves it's wet into synthetic fibers
finds the spider leg neighbors
in cold weather sweaters.
The scribbles and the heated breast
know no direction, never find rest.

Or:

One day a hand's heard knocking
eyelids slant, seem like smiling jewels
someone has rang with a package.
Someone's been following you, collecting.
Followed your hungover redness
heard your scratchy morning telephone voice.
You open the door to a box
of little black crescents you rubbed away once
but you didn't mean it.