At dusk, many find refuge there,
and by nightfall
Have spread their quilts, and gathered where
the distant calls
Of birds are lost among the leaves.
Some choose to sing
Of other times, in melodies
that still can bring
Those shadows near. Some, close to sleep,
are drawn by streams
That glimmer, far away, and keep
Not sleep at all, that from our eyes
we brush away
In those first moments, nor surprise
the night’s array
Of dreams has vanished with the dawn.
Rather, the sense
That something not quite touched is gone.
Most rare still lingers in the glass –
that strange demeanor,
Those flowers momentarily passed
by some dark gleaner.
(Previously published in Trinacria)
It stood before the ancient hall.
And has no hand
Touched it before, I asked? Doubtful,
Replied, turning toward the river.
I reached beneath
One huge head, felt the jowls quiver,
the acrid breath
Rankling my fingers. A tremor,
but nothing more,
In those eyes. And I a stranger
on that bleak shore.
(“Cerberus” was previously published in Atavic Poetry)