Find and share the perfect poems.
thought begins as small floral bowls : they hold greens—broccoli stalks,
chopped kale—against Chinese blue
very dark, with a greenish tint :
the way a silence falls to each side
of the knife's stroke, the colors rhyme
softly and I think, I'll miss this when I die. This is how I enter appearances
Copyright © 2010 by Brian Teare. Used with permission of the author.
(Johnson, VT)
off Plot Road
in March thaw
I stop in a stand
of red pines
to listen to tilt
as each trunk
follows wind
in its crown
& sounds grain
against grain
straining noise
as intimate
as that of a joint
aching into age
I can see
outside the pines
the weave of things
crows in a lone oak
concatenating
the ecotone
where meadow
meets forest
white folks
clear cut
(Johnson, VT)
At night the river,
frozen over, fits
its bed like a key
its lock. The current
keeps turning but
the surface won’t
open. I can
hear ice click, shift,
its crystalline pins
caught. Twenty miles south
of Lake Eden,
its origin,
the Gihon’s near its end.
After the old red mill,
before it enters
the Lamoille, it falls
I’ve cut from summer—
as if a swatch were possible—
not collage exactly—
Gnats hovered above dirt
path between chaparral
(pretty word—Spanish—“evergreen oak”)—
I envy the photo its frame—
what I meant to say—
to walk through gnats
Curtained between trees
smelled “skunky”
(his word)—
I followed him—
no one had said “love” yet—
high bluff cliffing the Pacific—
Spine of shadow