Monday, January 23, 2012

James Cervantes


Sweet work in front of a mirror,
all the world behind in terror.
Neat work in thinnest shadow,
fall in the north, spring in the south.

Horses and jeeps, mired in snow,
balk or stall. Somewhere, a mouth
nurses open to create surprise,
clock in death a second time, lift

an eyelid. Harmless flirting eyes
summer in Puerto Rico, then shift.
Plan nothing, she thinks. Funereal
winter holds, an eye and window

frosted over. A blind sky's missile
landed here, a new season's show.


Clothed in night, the pale hands
keep the spittle-stippled
pages down from fan's updraft
afternoon's heated air
windows open as in church
pew-scent, eau de cement
"fuck" issuing forth
chained, linked
not to delicate tissue
but in and out of discourse
the catalogue-clothed
cringe, half-rising
genuflecting code
of each other, blanched
oval or axe-faced poet
loving face looking down
on luminous pages
splayed out hands
plasma rising white as teeth.


1 comment: