When poetry works it turns language into art. Just read.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Sometimes when the story is wildly implausible Now we are resting at twilight Now the author has the characters undress Maybe we may talk our way out of death
\nthe author will have one character say
\nI have a hard time believing this<\/em>
\nand the other explains:
\nit’s the axle working loose,
\nthe fog in the orchards,
\ncontrolled fires in the canebrake.<\/em><\/p>\n
\non a frayed floral quilt
\nand the dimity curtains open
\nin the wind from Orizaba.<\/p>\n
\nand sleep together, they are naked
\nas the space between words,
\nthe lamp is unlit, the bed unmade,
\nthe silence is absolute,
\noccasionally a faint hiss of rain
\nor the scritch as the author
\nerases his own name.<\/p>\nEvora<\/strong><\/h4>\n
\ngiven that the I<\/em> disappears so disingenuously
\nwhenever you look for it, so does the poem,
\nleaving only the track of a snail
\nin the stucco alcove where we catnapped
\nin Evora, in late summer, scrunched
\nin the osier bed, before you knew me,
\nbefore I didn’t know you, when the future ended,
\ncracked sun in the mirror, when the finches
\ninstructed us in thin scattered voices
\nto stand our ground against delight.<\/p>\n