Sunday, April 18, 2010

Things that arrive


Owlless Under Spring

Owlless under spring, the stars telling all,
nothing held back in the blackness. My
father visits again, in his usual way five
years after we buried him in Rose Hills.

He doesn’t say much, as usual, but I
listen anyway as he commandeers the
voices of nightbirds, mimics communication
through every single misunderstood one.

“I’m sorry,” he might be saying. Or, “Please
forgive me,” insisting again. I thought he might
have asked if I remember him at all, or why I’ve
yet to visit there where he lies beside his mother.


These are the things that arrive owlless under
spring, the reticulated cosmos whirring violently
above belying its placid demeanor of beauty, of
succoring interest, of care or passing concern.

So I find my place there, pick out a starset spot
to lift my feet and lean into a thirst I never knew
I had. There, perhaps, or there within the stinger
of my starsign so the poisons may thrive in the light.

Joseph Gallo
April 18, 2010


Sunday, April 11, 2010

Where the woman sleeps


Aperio II

Veins of lupin carry the field,
stream in lavender veils through
a drying heart to bear it gold.

Rock calves and suspends midair, the
island borne by a trick of light out on
the channel where the woman sleeps.

Wintergrass sips what spring rain
pours now in sun, the cheep of quail
scattering seed beneath tasseled forage.


Two oaks, nearly still, herd grazing
wind along a trace of branch where
the red hawk sat her watch for an hour.

Another spring, is all. Another spring.
We do well to keep company with red
sisters who would call us out to sit.

Joseph Gallo
April 6, 2010