The sound of the moon
Budding on the float of her own white voice,
Her call, like
Spider silk strung from the darkest
Branches, swaying woozily.
The no puts perspective in a prism or a prison refracts. Says there are two sides, evenly negated. The no is a blooming proposition. It is active, compressed, in between splinters lies a nest of mites. Give me no to give me bliss.
The old dog dances up and down
mountains of salt peter until he disappears,
shaggy phantom dusted white in a mortification of chalk.
My work is steel-girded because of my fathers and mothers in poetry. Instead of divorcing my predecessors, I would rather marry them or at least take up their causes.
The heart stops, then the lonely minutes begin
until the brain follows, taking thought and memory
with it, and the loss of those ravens is the loss
that matters, for all we spend a lifetime guarding
We spent the morning in a flooded field, out among decoys, the light
catching us strangely. From the little shadow beneath our umbrella
we could see every animal endowed with spirit.
The night is blue and cool in Mexico. Outside, a naranja moon looms,
sliced by the slats of my shutters. It is Mary’s night.Ave Marias ring
in the stone streets just hours ago.
Sean F. Munro
we can't tell if you give us ground
do you feed on us
no more wealth delta
levee levee stop that dancing
be silt and sand and rock
grind against bricks and shit tin shacks
The moon like an eye
like the fruit like the moon
An eye like the fruit
like the moon like an eye
After they freed me from the wreckage
I saw the horse my truck had cleft
and to whom I imagined the job
had fallen to close a gate or mend
a fence that would have
kept the horse and me apart
In the story, she’s skipping home from Sunday
school, her pretty, pressed Quaker dress gusting
against ribs, collarbone, her yellow hair a comet tail.
A moving spot, a tiny lizard on the sidewalk,
darts under her foot.
They rose to the surface of my backyard,
rich in ecological afterglow, swollen with
nutrients and biblical particles.