Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2015  Vol. 14 No. 2
an online journal of literature and the arts
 print preview

Two Weeks

Slatted lap of an Adirondack chair
blushes with leaves. I re-coil

the garden hose, nasal slip
as summer empties out, gloves my hand.

How still so warm?
Sun-salted tale, the lawn

beds down, oblivious to sorrow,
anger, the joy I confess to one who—

wherever I am. And whatever
hides in the bamboo

I’ve learned is not evergreen
will clatter through, or not,

beneath a gyre of black shawls.
Chemical fire of chrysanthemums;

the hospital of any hour.

Odor love opens with its fist.  end  

return to top