A hued farther, thought of in greyscale by JKD

After "In a Pond" by Sean S & various paintings at the Pompidou Center.

Yellow eyeless as a fawn in the Crimea she says bugles, or bungles at gunpoint he grounded the black lens down into stardust, pinches of it, stinging us blind. Would it be then, wonderful to touch the muck, the insectless dream inching towards us in the hungover mountain glen? These severe glances, slivers as glacial as that swing, a robed languorous afternoon you read from one chaise to another, coffee to cocktail, all weekend, weekends, summer. Elegant as promenaders in angular hats, boas, constricted in their chatter, this space as wide as the arm’s touch is close. Whisper now on the bare seascape, omniscient green of, and tell me, what will it be then, or next, or hours, or ours.

Gone to Ground by CM

There is a string

we pull from the earth into

the wailing room

that sound

we set to fire

The Truth is Lovely by J Wonham

from "After fall" by JKD

The truth is
lovely, women
in the arms of other women
or your hair

the only one
again it is
at least once, once taken
not because.

After fall (new-ish) by JKD

after "Falling" by Patrick Phillips, from Boy (U of GA Press, read on today’s writers’ almanac by Garisson Keillor) (click here & scroll down to May 10th to hear/see poem) I took the poem and added much (though not all) of the column to the right, just to see…

The truth is.....................so easily, years
that I fall in love...............I’ve become younger

so easily because..............time beckons your eyes
it's easy. It happens...........backwards as in autumn

a dozen times some days......lovely, women in the world,
I've lived whole lives,...........but because each time,

had children,.....................dying in their arms
grown old, and died............I call your name.

in the arms of other women....voices, eyelines, thigh
in no more time..................I will come back to one

than it takes the 2-train.........this you, this time again
to get from City Hall.............the auburn of leaves

to Brooklyn,.......................or your hair glimpsed
which always brings me..........where would I be strolling

back to you:.......................along Madison avenue
the only one.......................if not always towards you

I fall in love with..................again it is as if once
at least once every day—.........seen is once taken

not because........................stopped in my tracks
there are no other.................for you there, yellowing leaf

A pack of Carthage and Windsor by Rufo Quintavalle

after All around the living ones by JKD

A pack of Carthage and Windsor, four pickled eggs
and a Coke float later
things stood thus:
house: unfinished;
home: inexistent;
garden: getting there;
going: good.
And being neither master nor slave
but one of those lukewarm things that God spits out,
I was shirking my responsibilities with gusto:
poking at the shrubbery,
tinkering with the mise en scène,
as if if I could sort out my borders
I’d have it, or most of it, licked.

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.
*****
What’s tendered, sun-scorched (kissed) we cure, un-
willing shattered glass, against Eve’s protocols
*****
circumambulations, stilled fermentations. Swept.
(I’m cold, you?) I’m cold, you. Flashes in the pan
*****
throw mazed alarms motionless as chagrin
parlayed into nosir. A dozen ways I can’t
*****
seed you. It ripens and falls of its own weight.
For hollandaise I will muster technique.
*****
Premise: silken sauce, golden. Crisp asparagus
then libation. My garden (silver bells,
*****
cockle shells). Season slipping into drought’s
parched habit (folding and folding, a ladder
*****
not quite reaching the green-leafy branch,
broken rung, ravenous ghosts of repletion).
*****
*****