Each man is the architect of his own flood.
Noah only built the ark
for himself; I've yet to
settle into the coffin of my body;
Not every memory is a cross.
You hold your purity tight
like a hammer against the premature
whitening of my temple.
When you strike roses bloom:
no thorns, only soft petals that spill
over the floor, the walls.
And our neighbors like animals
come filing in: one by one,
two by two.
– Jeremiah Gould
© 2008
jbf@fergus.com
Revised 4/7/2008