Outside, the crickets’ evening chorus abates; the day’s
terrible appetites recede to the hum of almost distant traffic.
What muscled hate reaches out across the years and finds
blind targets against which to fling its poisoned arsenal?
One surface in every kitchen is nicked with marks: as though
the scene of regular practice for some circus impalement act.
The goal: to trace the body’s outline as it holds still; to throw
without shredding the air, to mark by merely a hair’s breadth.
A roll of the dice, a flick of the cards on the green velvet table.
Hands pass across stacked tiles, dividing the fauna and the seasons.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Bel Canto
- In the Summer Capital
- The Hourglass
- Frost has silvered the grass
- Fragment of a Poem Disguised as SPAM
- Clear bulb of coral inside a paper shade,
- Private: Translucent in the sun, the laurel is a blaze of gloss—
- Kissing the Wound
- Fire Report
- Dear animal of my deepest need, you want to linger
- Ghazal, a la Cucaracha
- Heartache Ghazal
- Ghazal: Some ways to live
- What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
- A single falling note above
- La Caminata
- Dear nearly weightless day,
- Ghazal of the 1 o’clock caller looking for Pomona
- Breaking the Curse
- Milflores, Milflores
- Bad Script
- Ghazal of the Eternal Return
- Letter to the Underneath
- Tall Ships
- Beneath one layer, another and
- Landscape, with Summer Bonfires
- Dear language, most thick
One Reply to “Chance”
“The unpurged images of day recede; / The emperor’s drunken soldiery are abed…”
But I love the way you pull the poem back into quietness, the click of the mah jong tiles. It’s hard, when the noonday sun of hatred has been beating down, to lower the pitch.