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2 Poems || Douglas Korb

Krzywy Domek: Sopot, Poland
No one lives in Crooked House. Not Christopher. Not Dominic. It is not a warehouse for saints. There are handbags hanging on the walls. Price tags holler SPRZEDAZ [SALE!]. The sidewalks mumble on Sunday. Go to church for Christ’s sake. Respect the grass and walk on the pavement. Respect the bird baths lining the balustrades. The ring ousels are writing in the water with their wings. They spell f-l-e-e. Is there a savior for the birds? Save yourself some sea salt chips for the drive home. We’re getting closer. No, not to the sun. To leaving. Wherever we wander, may the grass be wide. Avoid tension. Condense. Shop wisely. I hope the cross around your neck hides a key. I am always on my way out. Crooked House. Crooked House.
I don’t need to tell you pain exists
when a building collapses.
It neither tumbles, nor
condenses, nor expands. The eyebeams
shrink into a vest pocket
like a cracked watch.
Where has the time gone?
The best zeitgeist of my years
was lost to the life of
television monks. Everything
is serious but no one seems
to be listening to anything
but themselves. I wrote an
editorial for an editorial.
I was angry at the tone.
The author suggested I was
myself. I swore I was in pain.
No one believes me but me.
Douglas Korb is the author of the chapbook, The Cut Worm, and his poems and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in magazines such as BlazeVOX. Tupelo Quarterly, Hobart, Versal, Barrelhouse, RHINO, Talisman, Poet Lore, and elsewhere. He is currently on the board of directors for the Collected Poets Series in Shelburne Falls, MA. His erasures can be found online at www.brokarthere.wordpress.com. He lives in Marlboro, VT, with his wife and two sons.