Pablo Medina
Three Fulcrums
Dress Rehearsal
This city is a French
horn in distress,
Calvin chasing hens
and the pages of the hymnal blank
like a furious whoosh,
a stomach pain, the pitch of sin.
Russian Doll
Every wall is an eye,
every eye is a wall.
I have only myself tonight
in a language inside a language
about the white sky falling
and the black earth.
Breviary
And when I run out of things
to say, what do I say?
And when the thrush sings
in the know-it-all woods,
isn't there a slippage
from language to departure?
