Derrick holds cities to his lips; jasmine petals,
small bottles of quenched thirst for dry desert highways.
he drinks them like tea, commits them to memory.

Lea folds Einstein into origami birds,
sings them into flight, physics and spirit entwined-–
comets streaking the night, burned into memory.

The actor smears malice on his face like war paint,
kisses razors, slashes a grimace of the dark,
a laugh that freezes blood, his final memory.

The critic treats each poem as archaeology –
excavating remnants of some lost pyramid,
searching for lost truths that echo through memory.

Robert talks of Hafez, of sculptures breathing
in the buzz of whispers, ear to ear, transcending
their prisons of paper, life lived in memory.

Victor, is there some unhealed broken rib in you
that leaves you gasping, peering into shadows,
searching for the sky, finding only memory?

TAGS: poets, Victor D. Infante

VICTOR D. INFANTE is the editor-in-chief of The November 3rd Club, an online literary journal of political writing, and the author of City of Insomnia, from Write Bloody Publishing. He lives in a three-decker in Worcester, MA, with his wife and pet ferret. He has definite opinions about art, politics and "Dancing with the Stars." Not always in that order.

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This entry was posted on Friday, November 13th, 2009 at 10:04 am and is filed under Poem, Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.