Michael William

Broken drum. Tired horn.
A song for the
tongues of strangers. A cigar
for the soldier’s gun. A drop of
...

And he said
To me
'it's true, you can't go home again,
But if everywhere is your home
...

I sit by the bank of the Nile
And watch the feluccas floating
Up and down on the river. Across the bank
The beige mountains stand in a haze looking strange and thirsty against the
...

Poison arrow night. Street cleaners
stalking through
the streets like runaway trains
with phantom drivers. Run-away
...

The poems I write are too long
for you;
you say you prefer short poems:
...

It is not for the sake of your art
For whic u will suffer
But because of it:
There is agony in revision, the turning of a
...

In the silence there is
No matter
Or consequence. In the silence
There is no wpeaker, no word.
...

not much breathes behind these windows
that pass by me
as i stream along the highway through
an almost total darkness, strange houses
...

The shadow of an owl sits on the ice,
the green trees, their branches
white, the lake covered in footprints.
...

This is the place where small stars
Are thrown from the manes
Of running horses
...

Tonight, there is no dream,
just the strange dance of the starlight
Against a window that will not open
we are here again,
...

1.
The night begins
as the crows
gather
...

Seventeen rainbows over
the midnight sun. Seventeen rainbows,
one for every dollar. Seventeen rainbows
for seventeen roads. And one
...

i twist my hands around
each other
and look towards the ocean
it is calm today
...

Another night
slipping silently away.
You sit back
and watch the way
...

I guess it’s a long way between
here and Greece
but as I look out the window tonight
I’m suddenly thinking about
...

There is no pen in this room
with which we could write
and even if
there was a pen, there would be
...

Broken basket. Tired horn.
The grey cloud. A heart shape.
Maybe a circle. Maybe the
faded outline of a wallet
...

tonight
my toungue is swollen.

My hands grow heavy
...

When you open doors
on winter mornings, with the strange
new pain on your skin; when the air
swells like a bruise and sits like a king
...