2 October 2005 | Vol. 5, No. 3
She Makes Me a Little Sculpture
A scrawny hippo, a tar-caked disc
hopping around out back.
A rogue flipped on his back,
eerie pastels shooting out of him
to drench the smart crowds
of smoke-addled rooms. The scales
of rogue fishes akimbo
in dog light. The way she tucks one knee
into the other knee,
where love's a crushed bird
in desert clothes. Gloam
munching the cool, heady gloom.
This is the swish-swish of a monk
breathing the sepulchral ferns.
Of a strip of time about to unsheathe
its stick into the ashtray
being cleansed of straw wrappers
and asbestos peninsulas. A spy
en route, twilight easing through
the fuzzy meadows of televisions
and tea parlors, owls slashing
silently the ends of light.
About the author:
James Grinwis's work is forthcoming or just out in Conjunctions, Colorado Review, Quarterly West, and others. He lives in Amherst, MA.