Poetry & Prose



Love is a cliff,
A clear, cold curve of stone, mottled by stars…

—James Wright, “Sappho”

Through coarse branches. Elusively rendered,
Sun’s glow flushes daisies.
Porcelain color rushes the stems of dawn.
Folding outward like those leathered Sicilian fishermen
Who sing into the sea,
The body is struck with remembrance.

Caldini’s flowers dance with the day, De Seta’s
Children dance with the sand beneath their toes.
Quiet, I lie twisted among sheets, wishing I too could twirl under
Earth’s boastful star amid endless white, yellow, green
Or alongside the waves of a glorious dusk-evening
(Their watery brush scatters bits of salt on the beach)

Fragments collapse into one darkness, distant islands fold inward.
The flora sway, stretching into silken rapture between the sun’s swell.

A last, faint, orange warmth touches
The bloom, hours earlier caressed by first light.