h o m e........
p a s t   i s s u e s....
s u b m i s s i o n s....
l i n k s




Metaphorically speaking we

are between a rock and a hard place.  I 
have never noticed until
now how alluring rocks
can be; why does no one speak
of a vein’s surprising color? What I might
trace if only I could find my fingers. Or perhaps I
am the rock and you
are the hard place: there is nothing
between us except
air. Please stop breathing; it
draws me closer. I
am no mountain and you
are certainly no
Mohammed and yet I
feel holy verses
coming on. If you must
speak, speak to me
in tongues – there is something
deep in your mouth I can almost
see – if only we could suck
stones as Demosthenes sucked
stones in an effort to reach
clarity – there is a word you
want to say – I can almost see:
it has an edge and a color: it has blood
from someone’s religion: I
think it begins with
O –

after Peter Weir


We fall in the afternoon
To sleep
To gravity’s lull
To the pull of warm rock
Blanketed in pushed heat

We dream we will not be back for tea.


After removing our gloves
There was no stopping us.
No shoes. No stockings. Oh the scandal.


But it cut – my skin –
Against the stone and bled
And I felt my glorious skin
(glorious tearing)
(glorious blood) –
All and each, I felt them.

I felt my hunger later
And my need

As for my blossoming purpose
I felt the wind touch my hair
Heard a breath say
You –
I choose

. 4.

All those clouds swirling overhead.

We disappear around the stone corner

Our petals blowing like silk.
 We were all and we were each.
It is not God it is Sky
Drawing us up and up
Drawing us       drawing us       up up—
It is not we who haunt your dreams;
It is not the symbol of the swan;
It is you and 
           You calling 
                       you awake—
It is the site of the line you drew.
           And could you cross?
No one spoke of the missing corset.
 What passes through an eye
           And what may not enter
           We are unlacing our boundaries
           We are angelic like match-girls
                                      Pale handfuls of ready lucifers—
A book of mathematical formulae
           Clutched to her bosom
Every answer is 
           None      of the above
Thick wind and thrumming
Altitudes and glass
I am so cold                   / She is so cold
I am falling                     / She is falling
I remember nothing      / She remembers nothing
We are every window now
There is no stopping                         us—
We are up –
              We are             oh –
                             We are –

The second day of autumn is strangely 

damp, green: a starfish pulling in weather 
and clinging to its desire for things
to fall. I miss the deciduous. I miss
knowing frailer things outside the bound-
arilessness of this primordial soup.
There used to be Time and now there is only
endure. Last, last, last summer, last— It breathes
in the space between the mouth and lobe of
the ear – it does not quite kiss. It does not
quite whisper. It says hot in the way only
hot can be exhaled. I can smell what it
has recently eaten. It pushes (push)—
it says last, its opening growing wider.
It is the only moving thing, this dilating
hole. All else and I, we merely stay. It
is the second day of autumn, meaning
“A mouth parts its boundary and sighs” or
“This soup can swallow” or “Nothing can fall
while we thicken and open.” Push, it says, hot
Even the ginkgo leaves sink down, fleshy.


Copyright © 2010 Literary Pool, Inc.