"we could see the first dust of years..."

More Perihelion:

Bob Sward's Writer's Friendship Series

Book Reviews


Issue 8: The Lily

Issue 7: Passages

Issue 6: No More Tears

A quick list to poets featured in this issue:

Valarie Duff

Nick Flynn

Jim Behrle

Fred Marchant

Jacob Strautmann

Vera Kroms

Henry Israeli

Daniel Gutstein

Joyelle McSweeney

David Dodd Lee

Daniel Bosch

Michael Perrow

Luljeta Lleshanaku

Miklós Radnóti

Nikolai Baitov

Drago Stambuk

Zafer Senocak

Fred Marchant

After This

There will be no more description,
no new moons with unnamed star
underneath, no implicit, reddening sun
on its way to visit me again.

I will ask them all to hold back
awhile, to be more skeptical,
to see if we will appreciate
the uncertain but systemic balance,

the poise and capacity of being
to burn at such distances that
those eager to witness will declare
what they have seen is the light.

The rest of this, which is mostly
description, I have already erased.



Eight, and we were under the porch.
It may have been doctor,
but I remember it was imaginary war-time
that had her tending wounded me.

How that evolved into our clothes coming off
I don't really know. Perhaps an appeal
to her sense of fairness met with a bright,
mid-morning, summertime curiosity

that slanted through in rows of narrow stripes
across the little secrets where
we could see the first dust of years,
that soft gray talc of stillness and neglect.

And where it had already begun to settle,
that was where we touched.


Family Value

hot sheep stink,
                delicious one another
to nuzzle against,
                yellowed, matted, oily

to stamp and huddle
                in the green hillside
through the sheets of rain,
                the crowning of clover

through radiant clusters
                of timothy, the child loves
her little, incipient life,
                most of it



whorls & half life
half-open & half-
closed, this heart
gristly as a wheel
of softwood spokes,
porous as a pine
should be & just
as lonely, separate
and lost, pure but
multiple significance
tipped with resin,
the smell of all it
once was a part of:
the salt certainties,
centuries of granite
and terror in squirrel
bone, the pale white
tendons of the tree
it will become, this
that might be mine,
this poor, limby start
at being human