Poetry by Tom Grubb
SEA
First they broke his fingers.
Pulled too tight and overtuned and
Snapped.
Night walls of wet rock.
Days of salt and broken flesh.
Seagull screams.
Bridges
What music now?
Coughing sea-green into
Yellow handkerchieves
He sits.
LATE SPRING IN THE LITTLE
QUARTER
We met by Saint Adalbert
On the Karlúv Most.
We walked together
Over the Devil's Stream.
In a dark cellar
I bought her Becherovka
And drowned your memory,
Yellow and bittersweet.
The moon bright grey,
Your blue-veined breasts
And the rain on her window
Like drops of blood.