Oct/Nov 2007 Poetry Special Feature |
The heart stops momentarily
and grass bends to accommodate
the body's weight. A blue umbrella skipsaway, like a sailboat ripped from
its anchor. The eyes fill up on rain,tiny insects, and become transparent.
What is the feeling now of the wrist twitchingbeneath the clasp of this amethyst
bracelet? Once blown off skin, clotheshave no memory of wholeness.
In an interview, the woman who got struckby lightning twice admitted
she never had any premonition of living.Overhead, the birds are excited by
the sight of earthworms surfacing the soil.