Winged Earth Magazine

I. Dusk

Wrapped in a soft sea-haze the wind has peppered
with flies and blown sand,
the white sun forms a pearl.
Then, falling back down
into the late-day sky's
upwelling bed of mackerel cloud,
she nods off, hides her head, as if to say,
“Bye, folks, you’re on your own.”
But when the pumping storm begins to brag
in its revolving monotone,
“I’m going to kick your tires for you,”
I can shoot back, “I’ve seen all this before.”
There’s movement in the water,
there are voices off shore.
Storm-hungry souls
dance to the spreading surf,
huffing a gaze of salt. They look and look.
One has a tripod, a mother and child to snap.
A single shoe floats up, and I think of the man
who met his only maker here last night.
He trotted back and forth, nimbly as we,
then, suddenly,
he found himself sucked out five hundred feet
and fifty fathoms down!

This weather can rewrite a barrier beach
as shadows write the light.

Insect-veils drape the reeds,
while busy swallows pivot in the heat.
Meanwhile, in town,
the market swarms with eager folks
hoarding breadloaves, candles and water.
The gulls fly funny. Someone’s tossed them badly.

They wobble like frisbees over the circling cars,
laze in midair, like gyroscopes on wires,
or sit and freeze,
til someone drops her groceries.

Wandering, I watch while men remove
the parliament of chairs beside the pool.
The air’s sweat-thick.
Tomorrow the yard will be an Escher trick:
patched sky and detritus, the wet wind’s map.
Say your goodnights now,
and hunt out some safe lap —
Any storm means darkness for somebody.

For the full poem, click here.

Posted by andrewanissi at February 11, 2006 01:23 PM