The poetry of William B. Burkholder

Of the multitudes that surround us, of the thousands of blinders strapped tight; tunneled visionaries, gazing down dark narrow passages, Who has the fore thought,

rattling an empty cup

Twitter dust canary,

The gift of your skin upon my flesh; That I am blessed to feel its softness Its subtle curves and wet confines,

Words may not matter, but its the attempt, to reach out and gather the fallen feathers of the Dove.