poetryrepairs 15,06:071

CAROL SHILLIBEAR : Eurdyice Running For the Pass

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Eurdyice Running For the Pass

Late Monday and dark is falling but light still breaks the sky over the road to the east. Floating from the west, the dark grey jowls of the dying sky jitter and spit, try to follow me past the mountain's spine, track me out over the wide gold fields, state's dry yellow tongue, but only a few deep black pillowed clouds can keep up, keep in front of the drying wind. Rain sputtered against the hills all day. In the slip stream of the car rabbit brush flicked yellow, shaking out the unaccustomed shower. From ridges, wet tunneled down to the belly of the plateau, toward the Columbia, rills, rivulets, old basalt scars bubbling again. A coyote streaked by leaving a vapour trail. Slap and tingle, rain at high speed, an open window, the smell of sage curled over the hood and tumbled like Chaplin bonelessly into the back seat. But with all that, it was only the horizon that grinned. Under the lip of an eastern scout cloud a wedge of rainbow showed south and another to the north. Widely spaced coloured teeth; down its throat, over the lip of the eastern horizon— oh to be swallowed by the world!

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:071


down fly on a great wind, jump the cliff on wings, leg sticks and arm rudder the arrow down ignoring the current that birds know but open arms and the red silk suit underarm net, crotch air catch and you will glide … on what … that gull knows empty air is never empty

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:071

Canto Jondo

You know your saints because they keep dying. Catching the balls the juggler keeps dropping, Jesus, you must be just as good as the Juggler. Garcia Lorca is the blue guitar Playing the Deep Song at blood weddings. My guts are purple roses- My guts are bloody pearls defeated Moors, exiled Jews Singing the songs of Gypsies stealing when at last the matador drops the bull to his knees with one thrust. In the stony country there is heard the sound of cattle lowing. Lorca is dead. I am a block of ice crushing a pebble- I am a black stone on a white stone You know your saints because they keep dying. Christ, catching the balls the juggler keeps dropping, You must be just as good as the juggler. Cesar Vallejo is the reef of reed-pipes playing the Deep Song in mountain citadels. Singing the songs of conquered Incas Singing the songs of runaway slaves Singing the songs of soldiers deserting The Ebro crossed and Madrid falling, in Peruvian passes then is heard the sound of flutes whistling Cesar Vallejo is dead. And this is the Deep Song.

poetryrepairs #212 15,06:071

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