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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