untitled

October 30, 2008

dance. the street is dark.
all the houses are closed.
all the inhabitants
are sleeping in beds of stone
with stones upon their ears.

dance and slap the dead
night’s atoms between your hands.
they will spin and burn fiercely.
some people will leave outlines of their hands
pressed into white-hot window glass
as they run from dreams to find a way out
of molten houses
kissing, wrapping round their ankles.

morning will see a hundred from pompeii
tracing your footprints in the ash heaps once gardens.
digging. they will lay you deep in the fine powder.
softly. no cry. they will fill your mouth and cover you
with the ash of their faces.

by Edith McKlveen

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  1. Tom Sheehan
    October 31, 2008 at 8:50 am

    I find reflection here, self study, repetition of the same thought coming in from an acute angle, saying elsewhere – and an image in my ear soft as a poem left in an old Latin diary three tiers of lava have taken to bed – this morning finding an alert for the promise of a marvelous day, knowing it has started already, thanks to Edith

  2. October 31, 2008 at 10:26 pm

    Isn’t this marvelous? I keep coming back to it.

  3. R
    November 7, 2008 at 11:17 pm

    This is powerful. Wow.

    dale – yes.

  4. Rachel
    November 16, 2008 at 10:46 am

    I am glad to see this poet is still creating wonderful other-worldly images.

  5. Stephen Wee Sails
    September 20, 2010 at 10:01 pm

    Wacky and wonderful as always; uniquely evocative.

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