Versione Italiana | Nota biografica | Versione lettura |
I've played a leaf and a corpse of a toad
A young pebble on Holmes Point Road
To camouflage all I felt I could not become
I left my place of birth to set my gait to run
Soared in early spring with the cawing crows
Skimmed bullrush heads with stretching toes
Gazed at glassy waters where sand meets bog
In the speechless lake atop a shipwrecked log
By night I discovered my spirit guide
Who rasped on shore by the quiet tide
We lay and hummed a sorrowful song
The lake blessed us with sacred fronds
Under a choir of crickets and starlit sky
We boomed and harked and later sighed
At dawn I left my shadow alone to wade
And wedged myself in the groove I made
Our longevity is measured
One November afternoon
Over miles of corn stalks
And melancholic farmers
On rusted tractors behind us
Leftover pumpkins in patches
Lie splayed and morbid
Past the flitter of sunlight
Between bones of trees
Pickled by ageless rays
Air bubbles underwater
Unsure whether to blister or
Surface with afflicted mugs
Pegged by a stalwart crow
On the upper bough of a tree
Its black eye narrows
Over each blast of zephyr
She aspires to drown in the lake
With lilies gathered at her face
The soft tendrils of morning
Whisked with forgone days
She exists without momentum
Devoid of any surge of sensation
Above water
Hallucination rivals reality
Doused in a mist of seconds
Pricked by the bullrushes
Her limp body curses the
Dark and detached thunder
Anticipates the night’s coolness
Changes into a permeable target
A magpie rides on the crest of a wave
And ogles the horizon