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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4625 Registered: 11-1998 |
Poem of the Week Mass for Indian Summer Heather Long It's raining and we begin to speak a lateral language. It isn't about the blues or waiting, but how we know we're still breathing, except for grief; the thin salt suspension that concentrates the gaze to a singular focus. A strange paradise, this: plucked from the oven's chemicals, future etched on the backs of earthworms; rhythm and sensation moving us to ambiguous destination, to a time before art and language refined; forward then to when truth rose in the aromatics of kerosene, in coal dust's slow galactic drift to sheets on weeping lines between house and woodshed; to the notion that our lives are small things, touched gently or torn beyond restoring, a moth's white wing, the tired body exhaling after a quickening of the heart. |
