from House of Heart
At the bed of a murky river
I found you wet and worn,
a rare gem beaten to the silt
beneath the hooves of a wild horse.
Like a secret, a sacred poem,
I held you in my palm
rubbed you smooth and honed,
a refined diamond in my hand.
At the bay of obsession you slipped
from my grip lost forever to the
inlets gaping mouth.
How weak we were at the final kiss
something we wanted to be strong for.
‘The Garden’ (c) Rob Goldstein 2019
Peter draws a skinny little boy named Tony and puts him in a cell.
Tony is more like his Mother than his Father.
Tony is more like his Mother than his self.
A doll’s eye fades to black.
Tony’s cell is really a nice little house in a forest of pink trees.
These things sometimes happen:
A garden of morning glories never opens.
A dead bee stabs the sole of your foot.
A giant toad leaps on your chest at midnight:
all the months of August in a row.
Rob Goldstein 1985-2019