"we could see the first dust of years..."
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
A quick list to poets featured in this issue:
After This
There will be no more description, I will ask them all to hold back the poise and capacity of being The rest of this, which is mostly
no new
moons with unnamed star
underneath, no implicit, reddening sun
on
its way to visit me again.
awhile, to be more skeptical,
to
see if we will appreciate
the uncertain but systemic balance,
to burn at such distances
that
those eager to witness will declare
what they have seen is the light.
description, I have already
erased.
_______________________________________________________________
Medicine
Eight, and we were under the porch. How that evolved into our clothes coming off that slanted through in rows of narrow stripes And where it had already begun to settle, _______________________________________________________________
Family Value
hot sheep
stink, _______________________________________________________________
Heartseed
whorls & half life _______________________________________________________________
It may
have been doctor,
but I remember it was imaginary war-time
that had
her tending wounded me.
I don't really know.
Perhaps an appeal
to her sense of fairness met with a
bright,
mid-morning, summertime curiosity
across the little
secrets where
we could see the first dust of years,
that soft gray
talc of stillness and neglect.
that was where we
touched.
delicious
one another
to nuzzle
against,
yellowed,
matted, oily
to stamp and
huddle
in
the green hillside
through the sheets of
rain,
the
crowning of clover
through radiant
clusters
of
timothy, the child loves
her little, incipient
life,
most
of it
half-open &
half-
closed, this heart
gristly as a wheel
of softwood
spokes,
porous as a pine
should be & just
as lonely,
separate
and lost, pure but
multiple significance
tipped with
resin,
the smell of all it
once was a part of:
the salt
certainties,
centuries of granite
and terror in squirrel
bone,
the pale white
tendons of the tree
it will become, this
that might
be mine,
this poor, limby start
at being human