Jul/Aug 2010 Poetry Special Feature


by Barbara De Franceschi

Artwork by Costel Iarca


In the middle of the night
I recite wonderful verse,
only to find daybreak
cannot translate a single phrase
or decipher the scribble on bedside paper.
Iron-tongue whispers pile into coded messages
that tread soft footed yet strong in gait
across dented pillows.
Sundial shadows mediate with heat on the run
to make the night last longer,
a doctor breeze pushing across desert plains
cools the forehead with deft fingers.

Darkness at a steady pace
trips from opaque into silver-grey,
light sneaks through slatted blinds
to create zebrine pathways on a white quilt,
breathing stirs from faraway.
Caught in easy lassitude
there are things I want to proclaim,
like flirtation with the scent of aftershave,
morning gloss on a pinewood dresser,
the sound of water from a bathroom shower
rivering green canopies into my brain.

Imperfect lines suggest I leave the canto un-stated.


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