Sunday, April 27, 2008

American Sentences: April 27, 08

And might I see made whole all crumbled things*--scent of anisette, the spot

on the tablecloth, loin marrow in the wooden bowl's crevise, pocket-

knife whittles and the hand's gesture when the match is struck,
sticks smouldering

in straw, or the arms overhead when clothes are hung out to bleach of sky--

for what is broken but the brain's sorrowful attempt to make meaning--

New Orleans a theatre of wrought iron scenes amidst clutter, the uncounted

boxed losses, reliquary of aftermath; or maybe envision

suburban houses, how trees and rocks are planted, the mother dragging

manure sacks to the yard now laboring in cubicle, the concrete

fiber and pollen, remembrance of elders in the distance, great-grand

parents like vintage poems that will wait years to be found, translated and

published, and to ripen like figs plums apricots bruised by the summer

hail, autumn's scrim, entwined within the red cedar scent, scat of blue

jay staccato drunk on holly berry; fragmant of the first family--

the children's oval faces at the picture window on St. Francis,

122nd, or was it 42nd; their view to the street

clogged by camellias and the old growth dogwood the builders let stand.

* Please find below the poem by Jose Kozer from which this writing is inspired.

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