Peter Specker lives in Ithaca, New York. He has had poetry published in MARGIE, The Indiana Review, Amelia, California State Quarterly, RE:AL, Pegasus, First Class, Pot-pourri, Art Times, The Iconoclast, Epicenter, Subtropics, and others.
Sky scabbarded in scud, the leather
made of bunny-scut, that’s there and then not,
better than knot.
Any Number Of Times
There are a number of speeds evident
in the leaves of trees and plants on hillsides
and the shades of greens are also branches
along the spectra of rate and change.
Something in me is scary, it appears
when I am weary and liable to fly
into a fit of mischief – a misfit
bit which you wouldn’t appreciate if
you were the audience, something I can’t
stop. It’s black, something else, really something
else I made the mistake of letting get
close back in the past before I knew better,
that now I can’t conquer or vindicate.
It says, let me out, sliding shut the bolt.
A quiet pine, a period peace, a
portion of space it takes without use
of force, in the grooves of wind lets motion
make inaudible sounds in specific
Seeing A Shrink
You are only one infinity in
all this all which gets around and in most
everything; this here all-out finite fights
to dominate with its particular
move or tactic, don’t you let it, shrug shrink