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VALPARISO
by Stephanie Sears I stood by Neruda's table over a sun bloom, shoulder to his songs, in his house, bright and foolish like a boy's, tumbling down Valparaiso, floor by floor, windows basking in the sea. From his cornucopian tower I set off west slashed with sterns and davits to the dire bones wrestled from black rock, hard blood of an island shaman. I bounced the globe to invoke him, bouncing it till I found him born of restless craters, hair in trails of night. By noon turbaned red like a jewel, By moon night marked his resentful face with ferns and stars. Up Valparaiso’s steepness, I went, headlong down again, a fog horn calling West. |
Reluctant Angels by Dan Ruhrmanty |
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HERE ARE THE FLOWERS
by Don Pomerantz The morning sun floats from the nipple of dawn to the nipple of the night, a full moon carried in its secret belly, pregnant labyrinth of luster. Beneath it, a small wind brushes a vibration of cornstalks, their silk tassels blow in an alchemy of gold breeding a low bonfire of many silences between the forests of two sounds. Just beyond the peonies at my feet, the dustings of impatiens and marigolds, neolithic stone pots spill nameless flowers that laugh at the shadows laid across the low walls with their small dances of geckos. The whole of the hillside flames— Here are the flowers that burnt a sea of rain. Wide silk of transparency sleeps on its thickness of green flames burning the carpet of moments between the earth and clarity. Petals distill as weightless drippings, fluttering ash in a lavish motion, loose fragrances of the ceiling of air on fire. A dove calls over rooftop crosses above tiled sheets of wilting stone and the grasses, nearly blue with enigma. A distant rooster chants of barely recalled days as time drips its moments into a pool of electric time— Here are the flowers that burnt a sea of rain. |
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