Dykes etch ownership on the intake.
Late winter longshadow-surface
accents an underpasture:
bedrock’s irregularities, what determines
the random patterns of drystone geometry,
cultivation’s forced to follow.
Intake: Northern English term for farmland reclaimed (or, rather, claimed) from moor
On the oily slope
the streaky stain
of your treachery
will not remain
– big guy
you’ll get away with it
The four enigmatic Moors of the Campo dei Mori… are…supposed to have
been among its ancient residents.………….Jan Morris, Venice
One tilts now, one bows down, another cries
in rust marks, nose replaced, and traders pass,
mere ghosts, below the camel’s gaze:
one foreleg raised, the sea ways locked and chained.
Here, round the corners of the Campo,
they sway beneath their turbans’ weight: the tales
that took them in the camel’s wake to chart
what citizens would only doubt, serene.
A wave, a dune? They sought them both
and found those things men saw as magic, lies
or heresy at worst. What they knew
seeped into foundations more surely than the tides.
But something kept the camel to the back, made them
place this plaque where stone rots, moss grows
luminous with damp, below those feet
that crumbled, fell off, missed the beaten track.
Karla Linn Merrifield
Rum and Cigars Will Bring Us Together
Why did the pearl guinea fowl and her chicks cross the Cuban road?
it rained. Hard. As Hemingway might write in his journal. He could add,
Coctel Vigia, his hacienda outside Habana, scared them chicken-shitless.
the dead heads mounted on whitewashed walls stare back. With dead eyes.
las héroe Papa shot to kill. Bird, beast, himself. After the hard rain.
3 AM in Nice
Low-slung sun over Middlehaven
Heaven could look like this,
ecliptic and derelict with
a painted metallic halo slipped
below a natural sun-set, a lot like
that day, I pickled it for prosperity,
when we reached a blind summit
of something-else and I could see
with the fresh eyes of an immigrant
in the aftermath of a famine centuries
ago, could stand on a foundation laid with
every intention of a saint by a plaque, here,
the site of an altar by the east window,
in a soundless cityscape with a ticker-
tape parade from a reposing ghost ship
in the dock, could see how geese fly from
Fall to Autumn in perfect synergy and I cried.
Did I tell you how much I love this? I love this.
Photo credit Kev Howard Creative Photography
Cherry earring days
You were spinning
in your kitchen
with the small
flirty leaves on
hooked and swung
from jaunty ears
seasons took your
in a sullen soil
see the girl
who watched you dance
in an orchard
rolling back the years
a mother’s pleasure
a moment’s grace
placing cherries round the earlobes
of another spellbound face.
See them spinning
in the orchard
See us laughing in the sunshine
You might as well not be there
Taking your ease
with my sunlight
I’ve work to do