It is the thing that lies under
under lies below the foundation like a time signature signalling in silence: there there there there we are.
È la cosa che sta sotto sotto stante. sotto il fondo. ……. come il tempo quaternario segnalando in silenzio ci …….. ci …….. ci …….. ci …….. siamo.
Every stone bears the memory of water
within its mineral bones
time stamped with the fluid trace
of a flickering-blind magnetic north.
21 March 2020, Lombardia, Italia
the world has stopped
crowned with silence.
On the occasion of the municipality posting a letter asking people to pay their cemetery dues
Boxes of disremembered bones
expatriated into/out of locus
the heartbreak of a January
Her eyes slide to the side
like a Sienese saint
Painted by the brothers who died in the plague
back when there were 100 stories to tell
while bodies rotted,
left where they fell.
Escape into a place where
we can’t smell
we can’t feel
we can’t fear
But she’s convinced it’s coming:
the lost weekend
of the barrel.
Her hair is like a flag,
like an olive branch,
distinguished by its colour,
(unique but the same,
as so many others),
flapping in the wind
Thunder is grumbling down again,
Out of that un-ironed pile of forgotten clouds,
towering over the Alps.
Sweltering, breaking heat
A few 11 o’clock fireworks,
This evening’s fresh clouds burst, Scattering across the asphalt a handful of rain’s unseasonable black confetti.
A jug of wine,
I feed among the lilies of this resplendent sky.
One year when the awakened plane trees
find themselves struck yellow in the night,
there will be nothing left of me but
a memory in your hands as they pull
wet laundry from the spun drum or
open the window’s case –
inviting October’s last, warm breath
to communicate the dust
between one room
by Bonnie McClellan
This was first posted in May of 2013.
The mountains are on fire with clouds,
burning wet they billow up,
choking the spaces between the trees.
I hear the ticking of two clocks.
Furrowing through the valleys
fat white engulfs the state road,
levelling even the bell tower’s lopsided stones.
The crackling ash of rain stops.