In A Pond by sean s

Pennies for a paddleboat, paddles
for a pennyboat, plopped like
a frog in a pond.
Ten years smear the leaves' green shoulders,
the slap of waves sinks to a caress,
the pinchspout of a dropped penny
passing beneath the umbral water,
tumbling fading copper.
Coinjacks wink from the pool's black heels.
Our arms grow oars, our graceful
ears drape in the water like willow, let's lean
together in the hull, shells
of nut cast away, the meat asleep
in our abdomens, our thighs, our unsolid flesh.

The sunbeams passing over in silence
a cleared space in the garage gather dust while
crickets drink, chat, black as coalsleep,
insect muck of dreams emerging from decay, leaping
from our fingers against the mossy treebark, losing
itself in the grass, behind the stony fragrance of
a pebble.

Libation (new, sort of) by Sue Chenette

This is a new rewords, but was written as a "wreading" (http://writing.upenn.edu/bernstein/wreadiing-experiments.html) of Margaret Christakos' poem "Photo" (from Sooner. Toronto: Coach House, 2005) which is posted under comments.

Jug of sighed. Her. On apple pored and poured
from fallen wanting, of fixed light, taken
*****
by moon-shine, which tolling rang down
the hours to darn! again – awful rumpus.
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What’s tendered, sun-scorched (kissed) we cure, un-
willing shattered glass, against Eve’s protocols
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circumambulations, stilled fermentations. Swept.
(I’m cold, you?) I’m cold, you. Flashes in the pan
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throw mazed alarms motionless as chagrin
parlayed into nosir. A dozen ways I can’t
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seed you. It ripens and falls of its own weight.
For hollandaise I will muster technique.
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Premise: silken sauce, golden. Crisp asparagus
then libation. My garden (silver bells,
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cockle shells). Season slipping into drought’s
parched habit (folding and folding, a ladder
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not quite reaching the green-leafy branch,
broken rung, ravenous ghosts of repletion).
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