"Here comes the perfect pitch-
it's white, it falls to the glove,
showing its stitches."
More Perihelion:
BobSward's Writer's Friendship Series
A quick list to poets featured in this issue:
Developed Nation
Is this how a god returns from victory?
This is america. The boy soprano
A test in harmonies.
O beautiful he produceth
the subcommander crouched in the stalkbed breathing
into the doughnut-world.
Fresh from the fish-mold.
Clattering out across the snow
to buy a paperknife,
clutching a flier...
Here comes the perfect pitch-
it's white, it falls to the glove,
showing its stitches. Here comes
the hot-front, stitched with flags
language from everyplace
on his body, the room
where the heatcloud lifts to the ceiling...
into his lily-season
_______________________________________________________________ Toy Bed
The bobcat poses in a tripod of rifles.
to the ice. Now this
its ice and good light. I slipped into the channel.
out, pitch a stick and read the current, fold back
a too-huge stylized rack. It pulls his head back _______________________________________________________________
The crown of the emperor penguin slips down halfway
over his eyes. Light shades down bluely from the ice cliff
is a salt marsh, but this can't have salt
or glass. The black wool beret is sodden and itches
and pushes my wet bangs down into my eyes
in little points. The field is flooded, floodened.
This has lost
my thin nylon jacket soaked through right away.
Mud pouched in snaky curls inside it. I stood up.
Is there still time to walk
the green felt cap, poke a feather through, remove
myself to higher ground? Inside the dry house, thinking.
What does the deer do, now, in the woods? He wears
black-lipped to the sky, or pulls his head down
and he must graze and brood. It pulls
his lips and makes him smile. It closes his eyes.