The Embrace

Saw that the moon was alive
And was breathing shimmering
In hammered silver on the mildewed edge.
Where the horizon moved and bounced we went.

The child's eye can carry the moon
When it floods us in bronze.  Bridle
The emigrant hold her face whose eyes
Are mares belonging in wild and dusty seas
And mountain ranges that scud
From quarter to full.  You chrome scythe
Pale afternoon gull wing: the earth
Grabbed on and took her embrace.

From within the tide of love came back.
Now we are being pulled from the car.

Copyright © David Dwinell 2003

I'm Dead but for the Waking

And the winding of the sheet
The grinding of the brass hatches
And furrowing of the beds of flowers
And for the planting in the rain
Of the grain for the horses that carry me
And the polishing of the leather straps,
Inlaid with small silver squash blossoms,
For the harness and for the silver chalice
For the priests—I'd like them to gleam
Softly in the mist—although I'm not catholic;
Or for that matter baptist—

I wonder about disturbing the bugs in the trench
But I'm not buddhist,
And for all that I feel I would like
Someone to say how grand I've been sometime
Or even have a parade, I suppose that is too much,
But have some ice cream and hot dogs, Play ball,
Call out in gravitas for the usher
To send someone to my seat for me and
Pay Pavarotti or Jimmy Hendrix to
Dig up the day with scalloped edges:  say
He tried to change, but, it was always changing.

Copyright © David Dwinell 2003

JFK International Airport

Reaching for the orange suit-case, we slipped, momentarily, along the full length of an icy callous running parallel to the scuffed brass bar foot rail into the hand.  It ached so in the bare light of falling.  My own hand still holding the orange suit-case which a hand was reaching for was buffeted by the driving absence of wind.  Fortunately, at this time a box of Morton Salt that nestled inside the hand reaching out of the orange suit-case was slowly being stolen by the right hand which is never, however clearly printed, shown, of the little old Morton Salt girl who it has been noticed carries a box of Morton Salt nestled in the slope of her left arm, into which we had inadvertently been pushed when we slipped, momentarily, as I was reaching for the yellow suit-case, along the full length of an icy callous running parallel to the scuffed heels balanced on the brass bar foot rail into the hand.

Copyright © David Dwinell 2003