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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3720 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Coincidentally Laurie Byro The same June of the same year a stray canary had fluttered into her house and mine in two widely separated counties. Nabokov The lick of a flame, the wing of a butterfly, a pumpkin, a sorrow, the earnest sunrise. How do I describe the bird that burst into my living room in feathers a cross queen would envy? A salamander’s tongue, a flirtatious yellow. Gone from South America, quit from cage and canopy. A violent thief, a trespass of sunshine. I dream of a Chinese Poet and his wife. They are asleep while carp idly swim in a blue blanketed pond. Words are harvested like irises that lift their petals to a mountain breeze. All night, I will wade in their river. Language, lush and solemn, scuttles like crawfish under a rusted can. I nudge a smooth stone with my toes. I chase coins dropped into their water, the color of carp, the color of chrysanthemums. All night, heat creaks through our pipes, lulling spiders, displacing dust. |
