|Oct/Nov 2007 Poetry Special Feature|
The heart stops momentarily
and grass bends to accommodate
the body's weight. A blue umbrella skips
away, 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 twitching
beneath the clasp of this amethyst
bracelet? Once blown off skin, clothes
have no memory of wholeness.
In an interview, the woman who got struck
by lightning twice admitted
she never had any premonition of living.
Overhead, the birds are excited by
the sight of earthworms surfacing the soil.