Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Every Failure Comes To Rest
by Richard Barnes

How beautifully this quite soup
shines, these half-lit oval mirrors of oils
flickering in dark contemplation
in this room

high above the cacophony of wobbling sirens,
the ranting ex-marine next door,
beating, again, his wife.
Outside, the sky has become mighty with autumn, birds

start like rain drops in a puddle,
and chimneys trail the death of junipers.
It is the fragrance of unfoldinng light
breaking the surface of every spoonful

that brings us here, blessed with desire,
bread breaking over the still waters
of this nourishing good house.

Supplication At The River
For Majgan

By John Brehm

And then I would turn away
and into something other,
as if the way the water moves,
confluence of sources, metaphor
for everything, but essential and itself,
would be my way or moving

As if there realyy were some
possibilities, some place to go, and
not just this repetition of first lisses.
As if the self could be a departure,
even if only through a fresh grief,
that would be a returning and a beginning.

As if the water that I am
might find a better form,
rise above, in a body composed
of something other than lust and sorrow,
or simply slip down into this water,
which atones, and forgets, and need not speak.


rewritten sept 23rd, 2007

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