"He heard a flock of geese whispering once.
She shows him what they meant."
More Perihelion:
BobSward's Writer's Friendship Series
A quick list to poets featured in this issue:
Vanishing Point
Beautiful scallops of painted metal drip in the rain.
Perhaps the moment is inside the woman,
Or perhaps I'll simply stand in the horizon
Someone has thoughtfully lined the cold floor
Love just keeps smacking
Into these tormented cold mirrors, like leaves
Throwing down their wet brown faces.
Or contained inside her yet-to-be daughter.
Perhaps I'll find
In a field lassoed by the curves of a stuffed river
The fingerprints of my only love.
Of a lamplit doorway
And fix my lapel for the duration.
Watch the past fly over the harbor, a missile,
That explodes like an exhalation of paint.
With tissues.
I could live with this kind of never-ending . . .
A vanishing point. A hallway.
_______________________________________________________________ Dear Flood
The earth turns around its molten core.
I know that. I knew it, felt it.
Empyrean. Dream.
Lavender heat, streaming. In bed.
Moths swallowed in the lost porch light.
Hot and sweet, tallow.
Beneath a racing of blue-black clouds.
She breathes on the tree.
A boat drifts halfway home, gets mired in the reeds.
The windows glow.
Moths in the soup. The moths are angels.
Angels with snatches.
They flow from dark banks in the North. "Eros (The Fisherman)"
He heard a flock of geese whispering once.
She shows him what they meant.
Her throat is like a tunnel. Her heart spits sun spots.
The moths piss on his stomach. They sing.
He eats one. (Taste of salt, a finger.)
He imagines a drill bit piercing the crust of the earth.
Instead of water, birds fly out of the hole.
They cover the moon.
He smells animal flesh cooking, hot in the wind.
Love on the river.
Mouth of hell. Mouth of heaven. A cave.
Drink until you're no longer hungry.
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