POETRY
by Garry Morse

IV  Guzzle of the Origin of Spillage

In that selfsame tavern

of the soul, I spill one

glass

          beauty puddles everywhere

&

shatter

    another.

     There are

many

          shards

                     in that selfsame tavern

    of the soul.

So it goes. I spill

& break & the

mystic insists

we can still

kiss the glass-

blower's breath.

***

X  Guzzle of the Shattered Vanity  

Upon the antique vanity

whose mirror had met

disaster, I thought

of Spring alone &

felt the body of night

flooded with blossoms.

The body of night

became a stellar

field & my hands

white nightingales.

Upon the antique vanity

they beat their wet wings

& with a satisfying creak

the mirror was full of ink.

---

Garry Morse is the chief widget coder for the "Office of Soft Hardware," which produces French and Spanish language resource software for North American schools. Morse is also affiliated with the Department of Poetic Devices, a mobile office most often in the shape of a floating and/or fiddling public house.

---

PREVIOUS WORK

"THERE ARE TWO KINDS OF PEOPLE IN THE WORLD" by Teri Vlassopoulos

"FATHER ANASTASIOS" by Antonios Maltezos

"DEFENSE" by Behlor Santi

"RESERVATION" by Cheryl Snell

"REVISIONIST HISTORY" by Cheryl Snell

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