Words
passing laments on the highway of the blessed
lamentations and lust and sometimes we just fight making love for a moment and it doesn’t feel right these children a’ crying these dogs that don’t bark superstition and faith holding...
Taking a Short-cut on a Dead-end
You know...
I’ve been dying, more than I’ve been living
I’ve been making more than I’ve been giving
You’re telling me I’ve been forgiven, what am I...
While Your Parents Danced
in the next room, their heels
skimming over dark oak
to Sinatra and Como and Bennett
crooning from the dusty stereo,
we lay in your small bed, sheets
thrown...
Small Window
I
discern
a
tiny
space
in
one
of
fifteen
minutes;
two
days
later,
I
deduce
which
one,
approach
it
and
peer
inside
(can’t
tell
whether
it’s
bright
or
dark),
hoping
to
glimpse
a
poem —
or
the
closest
edge
of
one.
Jethro McClellan was born in Boston, moved out West before he turned five, and has called Boulder home for most of his life....
Two Minutes to Midnight
Under the super-blue-blood-moon the truth eclipsed,
Two minutes left to love you
( time enough, perhaps, to contemplate , why ..
Just footsteps in to...
It’s Not Too Late
Walking around the lake this afternoon,
something about the cottonwood leaves, strewn
along the shore, and how the colors glowed,
and the reflections in the water slowed
me...
soon to depart
a summer wind and softly, now, the whisper of falland these shadows, like snakes they creep down my wall
and the sun, swiftly his chariot borne through the...
