|Apr/May 2004 • Poetry|
In the early evening I can see the sea is dusty
as grass in the outskirts of the square grows
sleeveless and flowers stand bored
without the hum of ungloved bees. Villagers
hide the virgins from the all-too-anxious
midwives; the cow says I cannot know
animosity and smiles. The moon is a changing
voice that talks in scarves, yet the ancient shop
only deals in elastics. While imagination tries
to be flexible, visions ride on the blue nodding
waves, and ether eats up the drinking-down agent.
Perhaps everything is the way it should be.