by Jude Dillon
whisper into the ear of a deaf mute and don’t
expect a nod……a thin blue wash surfacing
on the dark channel….
soon is hardly quick enough to frighten bears in iron houses and
shadows of rigid trees that never grow leaves…
the jinx of
heaven never sparing
the flowers breathless in this garden …poisoning
every dominant male doing handsprings into hell and enjoying the irony
a virulent grey ascending cloud and the fallen
sharpening toothpicks for the feast we’ve already consumed and
there is nothing on the table but
a San Francisco summer fog painting shadows thin and the blue green hills slowly
started with shadows and light.