By Stephen Mcleod
Stephen McLeod's first full-length ebook of poems and the winner of the might Swenson Poetry Award backed by means of Utah kingdom college Press
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Extra resources for Borgo Of The Holy Ghost (Swenson Poetry Award)
A moment? We listened as we listen now: to nothing— The voice we sought was nothing in the air. She died of singing and of silence. Now, Her cofﬁn passes by to wild applause, That still can cry out what we cannot sing: We are an ugly race, abandoned, glorious. We take this more seriously than we can say.  THE BROKEN GULL First, disregard the shattered plume, the edge Of fence unwinding where the carcass lies, The feathers darkly plastered, stiff, at odd, Unpleasant angles splaying from the bones.
No teeth. You know Lord how we hate to be patronized. Just a cigarette. Don’t wait till the Last Day. Remember Cuba, and Gettysburg and The visions of all holy fools. The video boy. What a wondrous face Too. I imagine your face like that, all business, But that beautiful. He took offense. It was only a thank you. He didn’t need it from me. ) Help her back to us. Does she know her name? No matter. We are all of us raised toward evening, toward the giant snow. We watch the moon’s sickle, lazy eyelid, dimmed by the Opera, By streetlights, cars.
Puerto Vallarta Anger is the world’s ﬁrst poem’s ﬁrst word, The rage of someone’s son who’s been shortchanged. Sulking on my own, the room too hot, I nurse my tit of rum till I’m content. I hold the sunset in my hand and squeeze: The night escapes from underneath my hat. An old song from a city never built Surprises this dusty land where they pray to the dead For Vengeance, Liberty, the Tourist Trade. Tonight, after closing the Piano Bar, Luis Drives me out to the Pink Cantina no white man knows.