New Art He will become something under those dark eyes something will become of him in the morning the windows held all his pictures he had painted every one and hung them there like whistles and girls, yes, he will call them his own and only ones girls will wonder why his hands have green veins and purple he'll tell them about the drug they cannot have unless they make it themselves of their own skin and breath on broad shoulders he'll carry the sky like a dove he's bending now to the ground and swooping up in a book of feathers look it has everyone's name

All poems by Br. Tom Murphy, O. Carm.

My Poems

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