Tag Archives: time


this you should know


it’s almost march
& I’m becoming bluer


as restless as a verb
forgotten by the wind
too sacred for
the telling


how little I remember
of months with no corners


the similarities of secondhand
& shadows sewn
into scars


this naked wreckage


my eyes, full of water
full of ink



lah 2.20.17 ©®



there are birds inside the wall

to the rhythm of feathers flapping
like rumors of small hollow bodies
and their desperate chirping need
to be free

I can’t unbutton the drywall
or paint it a bold color of

but I try to explain that I’m
addicted to a certain kind of
and maybe we all hide behind
the same corner

if this were elsewhere
a different canvas, a different life
we could fly together
experience the rain
and become intimate with
the outside storm

as if there never was a wall
after all

lah  6.18.12 ©®


once we were a melody

a slow string of harmonic words
abundant sentences
like flowers in spring

our syllables moved wind
to wheat

mathematically, forgiveness is
a top-heavy relationship

and in the sum of reduction
one becomes whole
while the other, a remainder

I have assumed the shape of water
of air

in a cloud
or a balloon

I must be poetry
I am fluid

the slow blue leak of
sky or sea or hope

I believe it’s a sign
maybe a malignancy
a cancer

heavy is this lifetime that
rains snow
each day colder than the last
but predictable
the way it falls with certainty
and purpose

and I feel compelled
to cut up the whiteness
like cocaine
and fill sinuses with misery
or all the color of pocket-stains

and then
yellow streamed through my window
slanted, sideways

but I am disabled

numb and broken-winged
before the open sun

lah  6.15.12 ©®


night is never
dark enough
to hide the ghost
we know must
be our breath
or the footsteps
of the ghost
we know must
live here carved
out of water
spilling from
our hearts
night is only
the gossip of
hollow bones
the gossip of
ghosts that
become the body
bent in prayer
bent in sin
much farther
than close
waiting for
small deaths
of small moments
night is never
dark enough
to listen to
our own echoes
the thinning
of a voice
like the whisper
that follows a
shadow or the
vowels lost in
a forgotten sky
suspended in ink

lah 2.15.17 ©®

~the repetition & the stilling

in the rain-stained darkening
in the tarpaulin of dreams
in the sage & incense

I ache to be bodiless
& emptied of noise

to perforate the visceral ruins
with tiny awakenings
to pierce the versed veils
with chiaroscuro smudges

I ache to be root-thread
unbecoming in the mirror

to gather my imperfections
with a trinity of reflection
to collect night in small jars
with bonedust & moonbeams

I ache to be a pronoun
& distilled like poetry

in a pocketful of feathers
in a silage of lightning
in a room of no windows
lah 5.26.16 ©®

~the change

late september

and the thicker wind


an impatient narrative of blackbirds

is angered

angled against an earl grey sky

clouds steeping in the wait

her field has grown


relieved of its bearing

barnwalls weakened where

the hen no longer lays

and a same forgetful sun sets

farther south

flushed over long sentences of spruce

pine cones mature

quickening the calendar

perhaps the resting canada geese

observe how half a century


a wrinkled reflection

prepares for the coming fall


By Lori Hamilton, © 2015, All rights reserved.

~notes on the spanse of time


evening dims

and diminishes

as morning must

to a ripening fternoon


stilled above the stretching field

its tips of dancing wheat

a softened sun pauses

at the brink of a hard horizon
until night becomes itself


eleven minutes after eleven hours

the clockhands point mockingly
a ticking insinuation there is nothing

worth a wish
the chance of poetry

and such things


a reminiscent fog hangs on

mutes the abbreviated hours
chill chalks the landscape

like a quiet room
a shameless sliver of moon takes back

its indelible darkness


if tomorrow remains uncreated

and time forgets its blueprint
must we measure beginnings by

the anticipation of breathing?


in the season of dying

the locusts came

~approaching self-reproach



I wrote a letter and pretended to
send it

an attempt to personify the broken beat beneath
my rib bones
rationalize how the azaleas must wait while I
orchestrate this burn

draw back my breath
and scatter confessions to a graveyard

as if confetti could calm the air

don’t apologize for leaving

the sentence would only lie restless
in my palm
until fingers hinge and curl
and knuckles become a white tourniquet

only the discoloration will remain


©  lori hamilton

~casualties of lake effect



it’s a common despair

inertia of a numb decision
and how aggressively it spreads
like january sniffles
or sprawling wind

trees gesture in their standing
orphaned by the green
blanketed with ghostsmoke

leaf fall comes shivering
the underneath goes still  


©  lori hamilton

~reactive depression



the river craves an impossible blue

between us, a few words from here
a small color
inches along her veins

the long-grass swallows
another january

buries the morning chill
roots within a rusted hinge

foothills hesitate against
the clouds

time recollects absence

like cemetery air
like moss between bones

to the north of sunday
everything is sky
everything has wings

nothing right is left


©  lori hamilton