Cold Streams Night Streets

Make me try cold streams
make me pry bolts loose
make me break gold chains
make me shake old thrones

Grind speech to mute ache
bind grief to bruised bones
find grooves to glide through
find ways to ease pain

Take my fake bleak snow
take my gloom-zone sighs
take my vain robe's gleam
take my tomb-weight shoes

Use sleep to find dreams
use dreams to find clues
use clues to find keys
use keys to find you

Wake my truce-choked roots
wake my trait-glued toes
wake my tribe-spiked brain
wake my stone-flame thighs

Place fuse though cage gloats
race wheels though fate jokes
face knives to know why
chase crows through night streets

Michael Harmon

If you have any comments on this poem, Michael Harmon  would be pleased to hear them.

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