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enjoy this Mark Fleury writing in the <6" x 9" 2012 ISBN# paperback book the 4-D Window			Enjoy this third book in Scars’ Mark Fleury poetry book series as a 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover or any linked text for the book the 4-D Window

enjoy this Mark Fleury writing in the 6" x 9" 2015 ISBN# paperback collection book Seeing Strangers			Enjoy this compilation book in Scars’ Mark Fleury poetry book (of THREE books!) as a 6" x 9" perfect-bound paperback ISBN# book! Click on the cover or any linked text for the book Seeing Strangers

Worried About Union

Mark Fleury

Worried about union,
Rocks that might drop,

Charred, from the chests
At the center of wings open
Only to God

As qualified to destroy the Devil
Because he’s created only by God;
I dive into the moon’s pool of

Whiteness and come out covered in blue

Paint. A different cloud
For each word, my sky skin cracked
Cancer open

And bottles of sin
Poured

From the eyes,

Waterfalls,
That my fear of being buried in
The earth had closed long ago.

*

The hand holding the bottles
Also has my seeing

Real poetry, organic vibration:
That it’s Devil Boss pouring it
Out, and slowly the concrete
World is, filled by him, alive,
Vegetated with statues of time’s
Self-renderings. The empties

Each have their own space,
God that is objects’ destruction.

Creation’s thirst is Eden,
To have saluting sculptures,
Tree branches animated for
Birds to perch on after the

Waterfalls have left
Sight’s openings,

Where the inhales end.

*

I’m not scared of the bottles
Breaking and the shattered

Colors being the same as
The colors that surround the pupils

Of a stoned monument
To gravity’s contraction.
All of the broken glass reflects
The duration between birth and death.

Green crystals wind shielded
Prisms for sunlight to bend through

Where exhales’ expansions start.

*

Why stone? The higher my heart flies
The more still my body seems.
And the concrete

Pour of breathing in
Makes each eye depend on
The other like the difference
Between the same word
Repeated in a poem. And my wings
Of nothing are made real by
The dream that is a mind-feeling
Being reborn as a thought
That is space.


Below breaking
Green clouds

The tide is drinking
The cancer that separates the ocean
From grains of sand.

Because the word concrete
Means to grow together, the synapse
Of head and heart is here.
This is where, touched by a misty
Fog, unlimbed stems of apples
Fall from twigs.

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