Gavriel Ross resides in Oak Park, Michigan. He has studied advance literature, literary analysis, and poetics at both Macomb Community College and Wayne State University.
One more percent and we
In lieu of that lovely figure
An acquired contraband
A shadow in a box
A change of seasons
And morning is a proper pictorial
Of who placed your secrets
Into a barricade of habit
Into only one place at a time
The price of thorns
And I would want those smaller eyes
For my own
In fingertips she is a saint
The Scattering of Leaves
Heat from the forest fills
Space between my fingers,
Between my lips, and the Spoken
Becomes a weight that falls heavy
Into the debris. You tell me to dream,
But I can't stop the pale blue
Ringing in my ears long enough
To sleep. Eyes water while my chest
Burns, and I can't help but to think,
Oh, Grendel, what have
They done to you?
Hey little cricket, you can't be
everything to everyone,
Fallen kings, incomplete cannot
hold light; a broken vessel
We don't see the ghost happen
from the residue of sun and holes.
Little cricket, I don't know where
you went, dark into still life
or the shape of a cloud...
Taken down and out of notice
this address and clash
should be regarded as beauty
of understanding and reason
This red handle
found w/o form
w/o temporary regard
Whatever the author
It's still only rain
Most Thoroughly You
You left your footprint a bullet, a hostile
Flowering, distant and distinct,
A personally overwhelming time
To overthrow the changing tides.
These means are ungoverned, the end antiqued.
If I could write you once without effort
The way dark things are undistinguished,
I could imagine you a loosened
Knot by way of profoundly moving omission.