Thursday February 10, 2011

Bitter cold at sunrise. A distant F-16: that high, harsh sound of something being torn. A few small clouds hurry off toward the sun.

7 Comments


  1. Landscape, with Water Fountain,
    Small Clouds and Endless Lyric

    In the foyer, I’ve installed
    a tabletop fountain: four
    gradated stone-like bowls
    balanced lip to bottom, one
    atop the other; water pouring
    from a fluted edge down to
    the basin, where a tiny engine
    drives the stream up and up
    again. Miniature homage to
    perpetual motion, its murmur
    audible until we pull the plug
    before we go upstairs to bed
    at night. And it will never
    ice over, never fill with pond
    scum, floating koi or iridescent
    insect bodies, its purpose simply
    to distill some part of what teems
    without cease outdoors, without
    relief but only momentary stay–
    Today, bitter cold; high wind
    at sunrise sends small clouds
    in search of sun– perpetual errand,
    as leaves keep trying to transmute
    the thin, harsh sounds of tearing
    before they flutter to the ground.

    – Luisa A. Igloria
    02 10 2011
    Sent via my Blackberry


  2. In the massage room is
    a trickle-water fountain
    which pricks the Reiki music
    with little pings of drips.

    That high harsh sound
    of something tearing
    is only my tinnitus.

    I believe for a desolate moment
    she is going to lay her head
    down on my oiled chest.



  3. A man built a city
    in his basement out
    of balsa wood, all so
    the model people
    riding round & round
    on his train wouldn’t
    get bored. Look!
    There’s a fountain,
    as artificial as in
    real life! And trees
    with an ageless foliage
    that won’t show dust.
    I crouch down & peer
    under the table.
    A rat trap has been
    baited with what looks
    like catfood. We have
    just been introduced
    to his wife’s collection
    of orchids, & I am
    still agog: all those
    ornate enticements
    for special lovers who
    will never find them,
    so far into the country
    of winter in their hot
    glass house.


  4. So far into the country
    of winter in their hot
    glass house they find
    the abandoned piano,
    a yellowed score and jazz
    notes drifting overhead.
    She follows the scent
    of ginger and he follows
    her down the winding
    corridor. The air is cool
    in rooms carved from old
    wood. He looks for twigs
    to whittle, happiest finding
    stray pieces that the wind’s
    blown in, or that the surf
    washes up on shore.
    No matter, they can both
    admire the heavy tapestry
    embroidered with a garden–
    all the vines and brambles,
    clusters of fruit shot through
    with gold thread; the lovers
    outlined in white and sienna,
    each with their haltered
    animals: they bend toward a chink
    in the wall that separates them,
    press ear and mouth against
    the place they might align with
    the other; they hear the short
    relay of filtered breath.


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