« Home | Entrance <!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[en... » | The Burning <!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[... » | "but sylvie had fallen silent again. guessing that... » | Days of 1903 I never found them again -- the thin... » | Voices Ideal and beloved voices of those who are ... » | Hidden From all I've done and all I've said let t... » | When they are roused Try to guard them, poet Howe... » | as much as you can Even if you cannot shape your ... » | "the rising of the spring stirred a serious, mysti... » | "this perfect quiet settled into their house after... » 

11 December 2007 

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?