"This big music harrows the brain..."
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
A quick list to poets featured in this issue:
Late Spring
He was born into middle age, heavy and
strong, hot arenas smirking up at the sun, applause: a thin spine and venom lying close sheets, he will try to fill his chest the darkness before reflection, the constant
a bull, all semen and hooves in the dust in the hot,
my father, but a man
ends a snake,
in the coolest part of the house.
One day, coiled beneath
with his knees, amazed at the
depth before water,
sound something like
soil.
_______________________________________________________________
M’s Vortex
Nothing of mine won’t slacken, curl, This big music harrows the brain unbuttons his vest, taps the count, Window to lamp, a moth. Imagines wideeye. And each fills with ocean _______________________________________________________________
be
turned by wind. See our hands
already ribbons on outrigging.
seizing at something . . .that void
of space
above his work; he hovers still,
waits a dilation of/in that
space,
calm dictation. He hums and low.
a sea-dirge, the
requiem-chorus
openmouth, all teeth and holes,
passing through the wreck’s wet
calyx.
That last symphony. You heard it rolling?