poetryrepairs 15,01:001

DUANE LOCKE : Terrestrial Illumination 648
DUANE LOCKE : Terrestrial Illumination 649
AVERIL BONES : The Sea's Trophy

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DUANE LOCKE
Terrestrial Illuminations 648

We observed the apparitions in Daguerreotypes, An umber dot on sepia, once a blue eye. She held album on her tanned, cut-off blue jean bared legs. She said, “These smears were once my people.” “The one on the left who has lost his head, now Only a long sharp stiff collar, his tie, a roach stain, Came to see me when I crawled. They said he was a ‘great’ something. He gave me as a gift, his medal awarded him in some war.” He instructed, “Don’t forget, they are still our enemy.” He had been wounded. In one leg, steel instead of bone. “I, too young, to know what he was talking about. Still don’t.” “ I remember being bored, he read a poem by Henry Timrod.” She looked at his arms. His arms were gone. She said to me, “I wonder if he had tattoos.”

poetryrepairs #208 15,01:001





DUANE LOCKE
Terrestrial Illumination 649

In Tuscany, near a field of precisely pared raw wood sticks, One end cut to have a sharp point to stick in brown ground, The other end, square and smooth, to hold up the heaviness As a globular purple is born to hang in bunches from thin green twigs Squats a lizard with a green grounded and silver spotted skin, Beneath the minute claws, delicately formed, is umber soil, Nearby, a gravedigger has lifted up a shovelful of skulls and snail shells. The snail shells attracted attention because they resembled Etruscan bowls, Even the scrawls on their sides resemble the Etruscan alphabet. One skull appears to have severed off a body by a sword. We think of the Trojan Aeneas, and we wonder if skull, Turnus’, But it seemed too illogical and improbable to develop into a fact. We thought, once human cruelty and violence on this spot, Where now is future wine and a present mystic, exciting lizard.

poetryrepairs #208 15,01:001





AVERIL BONES
The Sea's Trophy

On a windy day we walked down to a whipped sea, cropped by foam caps. Even the sky's sweep lacked a sharp postcard's choate panorama. I did not struggle with the sea's first cling; walked in (trepidatious) until no sand secured my breath above the briny foam. For a moment we swam in loose tandem. Another moment and you were lost to siren song and ancient phantoms, hid yourself in deeper water. Left alone, fear seized me. I turned to land, was caught in eddies whose frothing whirlpools dizzied me. Panic is not a pretty thing. Its dark mane passed over me. Its maw called all the world's sand away, left not enough to save me. But I know the capricious sea, had only to float on simple waves to the long shore where warm breezes dried my soggy gills, whipped my salty skin crusty. I wait for you to surface.

poetryrepairs #208 15,01:001







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