Monday, February 10, 2014

Jeffrey Morgan

I stumbled upon Jeffrey Morgan on Verse Daily, he has a poem called, The Mayor's Guide to Reelection. Check it out here.       

I've been quite impressed with his writing, particularly his striking imagery. So I read a lot of his poems. This one The Anesthesiologist made an impression on me.
My eyes find rest: dust in a column of sunlight, the shape of my lover
under the sheets like hills behind clouds. I only know I’m staring
when my lashes touch together as if magnetized.
I’m not looking at anything. A voice inside me counts backwards.
The zero is a mouth with a prayer stuck in it.
No one is going anywhere and no one is coming back.
My hands curl like dead spiders, curl like those of the ferryman
around an invisible oar. Sometimes there is nothing
to do as distance asserts itself but notice how the banks don’t hold
the river, how the boat is too small and crumbles when you press
the button that summons the medicine. - See more at: http://blr.med.nyu.edu/content/archive/2012/fall/theanesthesiologist#sthash.v50yOk8A.dpuf
My eyes find rest: dust in a column of sunlight, the shape of my lover
under the sheets like hills behind clouds. I only know I’m staring
when my lashes touch together as if magnetized.
I’m not looking at anything. A voice inside me counts backwards.
The zero is a mouth with a prayer stuck in it.
No one is going anywhere and no one is coming back.
My hands curl like dead spiders, curl like those of the ferryman
around an invisible oar. Sometimes there is nothing
to do as distance asserts itself but notice how the banks don’t hold
the river, how the boat is too small and crumbles when you press
the button that summons the medicine. - See more at: http://blr.med.nyu.edu/content/archive/2012/fall/theanesthesiologist#sthash.v50yOk8A.dpuf
My eyes find rest: dust in a column of sunlight, the shape of my lover
under the sheets like hills behind clouds. I only know I’m staring
when my lashes touch together as if magnetized.
I’m not looking at anything. A voice inside me counts backwards.
The zero is a mouth with a prayer stuck in it.
No one is going anywhere and no one is coming back.
My hands curl like dead spiders, curl like those of the ferryman
around an invisible oar. Sometimes there is nothing
to do as distance asserts itself but notice how the banks don’t hold
the river, how the boat is too small and crumbles when you press
the button that summons the medicine. - See more at: http://blr.med.nyu.edu/content/archive/2012/fall/theanesthesiologist#sthash.O4zfFzgl.dpuf

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