|
Runes
against the sky
a rune of crows
imprint the moon
above the ring
of ruined oaks
______________
Lace
gleaming
Queen Anne’s lace
in the moonlight-
trembling hands
unclasp her bra
______________
Vignette from the Edge
While I play golf
she lay dying
dreaming of a sea
with endless waves,
as gardenias droop
cloying her room
near the cold window
awkward murmurs.
_______________
Baling Hay
Scythed down how flat the pasture
is:
Olive curing rows of grass fade and silver.
Behind drumming machinery,
like a wagon train,
sweet bales circle the field.
Tall exhaust stacks - rusted, split -
leak smoke.
Their cryptic signals puff,
then drown in the humid air.
The way the smut and dust paints
chin, cheeks and corded arms.
He looks as though a palette
of charcoal and gray spilled,
tracing its idea of Guernica.
Carved with rivulets of sweat,
eyes noses fingers
juxtapose at acute angles.
Meanwhile, the ripening hay...
all over a fragrant smell prevails
Slowly an iced mason jar,
black cold tea thick with sugar,
cracks the encrusted grime.
His mouth, here and there, appears.
Bleached sky- in every place the sun.
The only shade, a bulky hay baler
dragging its round shadow
Like a mace, the spectral spikes again
reap his head, groin and dead blue grass.
A 2River ‘View 1_5
|
