Lynn Rowe Poems

The Eldest of Sylvia's Daughters
Lies Still in the Earth Below,
On the Edge of a Small Town Graveyard,
Where They Never Even Mow.
...

Death is a rider on a pale horse, Honey.
Yah roll up your sleeve and yah lay down your money.
Death is a rider on a pale horse.
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By daylight,
we reconcile the numbers,
or smelling of grease,
turn burgers
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I enjoy the nuance of creatures
How horses resolve not to lie
The soul of the equine is blatant
when you look in the depth of its eye
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Nestled in windows
Comatose on the couch
Exiled from countertops
The kitchen table
...