"a horse roughly broken/
steaming in the sleet"
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
Cleaning the Icons
*
There is mention of you
*
You must move very slowly
*
String gives way to wool, fur or hair
*
Heaven’s litmus blue
*
Through the airbells of early glass
*
Snowfall
*
Once you split open,
*
No one has any idea they are there.
_______________________________________________________________
You could be a little happy again
in your small empty car
headed for invisible wildernesses,
a naughtment of the self,
with Egyptian elements only: your
body, your name, and your shadow.
to see inclusions
in this glare
always with us, radiopaque
at night, quiet office
of the Rhone glacier,
river that ends in a desert flower,
minutes to look at the dead,
span of a life.
beginning with the earliest years
binding a soft thing
to a truck,
(a dance), the (handicapped)
moving only their arms
like seagrasses, conceptual art, each
a tiny movie star.
plosive
held for a stutter,
sweet language of
school girls
punctuated with hearts, severed
vocal chords
of fifty laboratory
cats—
still crossing space,
authorizing
this.
blue radiates most
red and yellow throw their gleams further
and in the evening
near a much admired lake
with feathered arrows,
black silk sutures,
you know what to do.
a natural peaceful disposition,
transparency
and water.
Lambs are born
and forests bloom under powder
in Lapland,
with souls of cork,
avalanche masks,
great poodles
leaping from life to death,
a safe place to sleep.
saw the flower inside,
travelers bringing back views,
all in the same guise,
a horse roughly broken
steaming in the sleet
by the coping stone-
almost like being alive.
During the first cleaning
something in the limewood stirring,
coming up through the reaches
of dark varnish,
a saint,
the incarnation of a girl
suddenly after two thousand years
while heavy balanced birds
fly over,
fire brings forth from the gound
pink,
and everything is unburdened.