print previewback EDWARD MAYES
The Lost Art of Piping Down
We had long admired the sheen and
The silence of the two pomegranates
In the blue bowl, and will that blue
Bowl not crack with its happiness, its
Surprise at holding so openly what is
In it, and the absence of the seed inside
The stone, and the stone inside
The peach, and the pick in the tool shed
Without its handle or the handle cracked,
And the butcher paper smooth in its
Rolls, the aperitivo drowning in ice on
The green table, the aspergilla emptying
Of their holy water, and the water
Quietly washed in itself, the calm pile
Of agitators in the junkyard, and names
Dropping on the shag rugs, hidden in
Whispers, and the helicopters now
Not chopping up air, the air whole,
The air litmussed and gleaming, and
We stay on the same pages for hours,
And the days of the same pages get
Longer, and the perquisites of this our
Last life, that we can still feel like crawling,
That the upkeep cancels out the downturn,
That we are lucidity, fingers over lips,
The grace given so that we may one day speak.
All Must
The Lost Art of Piping Down
Se Non è Vero, è Ben Trovato