Richard Martin


I control nothing.
This morning the past walked by my bedroom window on stilts.
When I close my eyes, the sky is green.
I’ve written Van Gogh’s ghost about crows in my yard.
I’m a fan of color.

My head aches like a symphony orchestra in a tin cup.
Bronze butterflies flutter in a wind of wayward kisses.
Construction crews dig for a way out in the streets.
There is too much news.
Time faints on a bank of magenta clouds.

I might be part of a text missing a pair of red shoelaces.
I heard a newly discovered planet has volcanic hiccups.
Forgive me for not following rules for building
a clay replica of the ego hailing a taxi.
I’m lost in a tailspin of beauty.

Who is the past?
Now the whine of machines in the flowerless air.
It is a fall of dying leaves,
and I reside in the mind
of what escapes me.

Richard Martin’s most recent books of poetry are Techniques in the Neighborhood of Sleep (Spuyten Duyvil, 2016), Goosebumps of Antimatter (Spuyten Duyvil, 2018), and Hard Labor (Igneus Press, 2019) Martin is a past recipient of a NEA Poetry Fellowship, and founder of The Big Horror Poetry Series (Binghamton, New York, 1983-1996).