Dream of the Last Shaker

We stream into the meetinghouse through two doors like twin cords...
By Damian Rogers
Poetry · From the Jan/Feb 2009 magazine
Print version Support The Walrus Foundation
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We stream into the meetinghouse
through two doors

like twin cords
in the same braid.

I love the men,
all of them

lined up like
God’s long finger.

The sun attends everything
equally: the wood, the bend

of her white muslin sleeve,
the outstretched arm of the apocalypse.

Take hold of my shoulder.
Shake me awake.

3 comment(s)

vanderleunDecember 11, 2008 00:11 EST

Very nice. Very.

AnonymousDecember 12, 2008 21:28 EST

Rogers - you were born to write.

L.P. January 15, 2009 20:46 EST

This poem's the shit. So wonderful to see
Damian Rogers again in print.
Anyone interested look for her also
in a back issue of Brick Magazine.

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