"This big music harrows the brain..."
More Perihelion:
Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series
A quick list to poets featured in this issue:
Late Spring
He was born into middle age, heavy and
strong,
a bull, all semen and hooves in the dust in the hot,
hot arenas smirking up at the sun, applause:
my father, but a man
ends a snake,
a thin spine and venom lying close
in the coolest part of the house.
One day, coiled beneath
sheets, he will try to fill his chest
with his knees, amazed at the
depth before water,
the darkness before reflection, the constant
sound something like
soil.
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M’s Vortex
Nothing of mine won’t slacken, curl,
be
turned by wind. See our hands
already ribbons on outrigging.
This big music harrows the brain
seizing at something . . .that void
of space
above his work; he hovers still,
unbuttons his vest, taps the count,
waits a dilation of/in that
space,
calm dictation. He hums and low.
Window to lamp, a moth. Imagines
a sea-dirge, the
requiem-chorus
openmouth, all teeth and holes,
wideeye. And each fills with ocean
passing through the wreck’s wet
calyx.
That last symphony. You heard it rolling?
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