Thursday, April 5, 2012
a poem by shane michael manieri
He Gave Me Solitude
Clouds roll in once again, reckless, hiding the August sun. The dune grass, like weathered
individuals, blow in the mind. A chill that was not there before, yet always —
I smoke a cigarette, though I think myself a non-smoker. Raindrops begin to pellet the
book of a famous poet. A black crow lands on the fence behind me, and caws, —as if
cawing at me. Tell it. Tell it. Doesn’t it always symbolize something: a black crow
throatily grunting. A child runs up and down the corridor of the hotel balcony above me,
innocently screaming. His father yells something I cannot hear.
Shane Michael Manieri was born and raised in New Orleans, Louisiana. He received a Bachelor of Arts with Honors from The New School University, and is the recipient of fellowships from the New York Summer Writers Institute and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. His poems are forthcoming in Painted Bride Quarterly and Lambda Literary Review. Shane currently lives and writes in New York City.