Tonight was a Salt Lake City Arts poetry reading, by my teacher Tim Erickson and my other teacher's son, Michael Hansen.  Both of their work was phenomenal.  There's definitely a whole new intimacy to actually hear an author reading their own work, instead of just seeing it written down or typed out.

Ceasefire (Cento)

They  have watered the street,
for once not fighting, just listening, watching the storm.
Not even mild contempt in their expressionless,
agile, impetuous, broad-shouldered
mother, baying her and her baby in.
A weathered monument to some of the dead.

Sources: Amy Lowell, Alan Shapiro, Larry Levis, Campbell McGrath, Evie Shockley, Natasha Trethewey

We're researching different poetry forms for literary magazine.  A cento is made up completely of lines from other poets. 

Warm

This is the smell of electricity.
The spaces between our fingers
burn themselves up,
moving too quickly to contain
themselves.
But we pull away,
and the air sputters
and mutters its inaccuracies.

Into the water.

Some Sets

Am I a bad person,
for liking a man in a uniform,
even though I cringe
at the thought of the material
giving way to daggers
and silver
bullets?
I feel like I am. My gut.
The tree bark watches as this boy—
just a boy, not yet a man,
like every classic love song—
stands cold in the snow.
His boots have worn through the toe
and his toes have worn through the boots.
He slices the snow,
dragging a blade behind him.
Now, thir't, four't, fifth, six't,
lift your rifle.
Hold it at right shoulder.
Walk to your spot
by the snow that has melted
and frozen over.
Stand on the rocks and look
at your reflection.
You will die here.
You will be shot in eight counts.
You will fall,
thinking of the river at home
instead of yourself.
Hold your rifle at right shoulder.
Five, six, seven, eight—