Matthew D. Rowe

Poems and Other Coincidences

Category: Haiku

I’d Say Grace to You, Wild Woman

I’d say grace to you, Wild Woman,

if I prayed,

I’d pray for you,

I’d save everything sacred for you.


I hear you from atop this butte,

overlooking the pitch black valleys & plains,

howling mercy to the moon,

howling against chauvonism,

against the 9-5 turning cogs, redundancy,

utter detachment from the trees & creeks

that used to mean the world to us,

turned expendable things.


I hear you in the canyons below,

frollicking through dandelion fields,

prancing & dancing with fawn,

clothingless as you came, long hair flowing

free from the binding chains of industry,

all the poison & complacency it brings.


I hear you beyond the cabin windows at dawn song,

singing solemn serenades with the blackbirds,

softly bellowing to the rhythm

of morning’s glorious break.


I hear you telling me, as you rise from slumber

that I only care to see your naked body

clamber from bed,

that I only want temporary solace,

your figure only, not your soul,

and I wish for the courage to say

I’ve never been more in love

than when I watch you dress,

each article a decade of making memories,

every button a love song to come.


I’d say grace to you, Wild Woman,

if I prayed,

I’d pray for you,

I’d save everything sacred for you.

An Incarnation of Voice

Pressure in your chest

as trespassing words approach,

to eat once free thoughts.

14,000 Year Old Water

We’ve crushed our threshold,

giggling, slurring and smiling

into the old tide.

Strong & Fearless

Living in a state

of non-committal warfare

is strong and fearless.

Saturn in My Lungs

Oh powerful space,

dark, glorious, persistent,

leave rings ’round my lungs.

Wish to Remember

Drunk and Ship again,

trying not to ruin lives

foreign to thine eyes.

Pure Correlation

The taunting echos

tap, tap, with the pounding feel,

pure correlation.

3:00 a.m. Come Down

In puddled brilliance,

dog shit and lesbian fights

cling tight to our teeth.

A Quick Sobriety Check

Doth the cock still crow?

Is there still a pouring out

of first thought, best thought?

The Miracle.

No matter the time

spent restless, wanting mercy,

bare skin always wins.