Grace Cavalieri

The Writer at Noon

Well here we go thinking time as barrels of dead words
                     Buried beneath velvet ruffles.
Better to be a wife, join the choral language of the neighborhood. That
          Way the dangerously furious echo from the throat
          Will be lost in the singing. The survivor with details
Of the survival will be a hum.

Releasing, No, keep the private ocean silent.
          There are vacant pieces of the afternoon where
Adulteries of sound can be told. As for wearing special clothing, No.
          We do not want to further the idea of savages in the neighborhood,
People with fierce recall, however acting frail and dumb.

Grace Cavalieri

Breaking Out

Islands of not knowing. This is a long disgrace without loving
             Periods of focus.
I would preach a ballad from the roof, sing to mermaids and children,
                                            Cross limbs with scholars for one moment
In the gardens of inspiration, fish swimming in black waters suddenly split pink,
With feet          rising in clusters
leaving footprints in the snow, weeds of my own history.