Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Rivulets of fine rope

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Eleven Dresses

Wheat with cobalt trim, open
at the back so that shoulders might
find the cloudbreak’s brief caress.

Burgundy accented with copper thread,
twisted like rivulets of fine rope; a way
down from such prisons of station.

Flaxen as bronzing maize, where
a glint of red hair might race
fire through the mad fields.

Olive flecked mute with lapis, soft
for the restless covers of hard books
amid stonebeds that arrive like chariots.

Silence is the mantra black, when
everything loses itself to the unkept
promise that took the sun with it.

Shadows throw gingham lace wildly
across the buckboard; spring burns
a blue that will blaze through winter.

Hound and wind’s tooth interlace
like unlocked lovers; moors break
banshees in mist along the heath.

Silks skirt the velvet draw of summer,
trims the budding laughter like a taut sail;
there will be time for missing all this later.

Denim frays the fringe that barns the hay;
tangled in the scent that spoke animal
when the rainswollen doors were left ajar.

Corduroy ribbed in a thousand currents,
each line an oath sworn navy to the sea;
pacing the thirty year wait to the deckbones.

Topaz spun in amber, the seize of perfect fabrics
sanctify the touch that bore the fingers; senses
teach what has been taken and what will not remain.

Joseph Gallo
August 21, 2006

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Blogger ankhara99 parried...

This is lovely, Joseph. Just lovely. Simply wonderful. In some strange way it satisfied my incessantly tactile nature. Thank you.

August 22, 2006 4:53 PM  
Blogger joseph parried...

Nothing more than feelings...

Glad you like it.
No idea where it came from.

I recall the yellow cotton dress
Foaming like a wave
On the ground around your knees...

August 22, 2006 8:19 PM  

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