Michael Borich

Desperate for open-heart poetry, an infusion of lusts  High in viscosity, some grief to burst through my chest And rend me insensate—oh savage muse, free me from all Tame poesy, every pretentious line which dreams of flowering  Into verse. I wan [...]

We would see him wandering, homeless and solitary,  Weary gait from arthritic hips, mostly rust, not Rosy-fingered dawn in his velvet coat, but gentle if Our path crossed his odyssey through this world. His  Head awry, eyes milky with cataracts, h [...]