Stephen Ramsek

When I make my poems, I press the pencil hard into the paper, Hoping that one of these days I’ll Rip right through the pulpy fibers And see the Father looking at

Chapter I I lay sprawled in the snow, buried beneath my heavy black robes. Around me, the Apennine peaks of Italy shot up into the sky, their tips painted in the morning’s

The trees glow under the yellow lights, And acorns crack beneath my feet. The wind whips down the leaf-strewn street, Taking little leaves for little flights. Crystal dew blankets the blue grass, And

Thou art not the morning, Though thou art still and quiet. Thou art not the night, Though thou art cold and dark. You’re a slobbering slave of Belial, A creeping, disembodied soul

I want to have lunch with a red-lipped girl and make her smile, To call her the flesh of my flesh and hold her hand without guilt or fear. I want to make