The Poet Community

The Wild Winters of Imperfect Grace | A Poem by James Diaz

No shouting
I toss the roots
into the pit
of winter

how slowly our hands
in sheets and dreams
of migration

this little pill
in the center of the eye

there are intruders
when you live outside

skin and bone
and memory of struggle
kicked – shouting
I can take it,
what else you got?

But there is no one around
3 a.m.
a cold park bench
and a prayer
just about to die out on your lips

I could have been a pretender,
I could have loved you
in a way that you would have found hard to believe,
imperfectly potent,
singular, single-handedly.


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