Friday, August 15, 1997



The beach rises from the swamp, 
rise and fall by the edge of the sea.
Bring out the lions. 
Little remains of the next frontier.

How lovely, this green made of spring.
Deep in the heart, the earth will translate your arrival
Calling out the names of cattle 
on this last handful of dying earth.

You better find another way out 
of this country by the execution of desire.

A Celtic lion, the flowered word.
Writing jails a tropical sunset 
with its Venetian blind approach to image.
Line after line in pewter script, 
it relentlessly marches across a trinity of palms. 

The ubiquitous cliché of paradise.
But below that crepuscular sea, 
lines and words become like strata 
and break into symbols. 
Like schools of fish in the sun.

At the bottom of the ocean 
the lion is awake 
spewing forth the flowered word 
into the depths of the abyss. 
He is awake, not rampant.

The artist practices her name 
over and over again
Design elements and fluid writing 
like the ripples on the pond 
breaks the surface. Hold her sanity in check.

Sometimes if you sit still enough,
you can see where the fish come to feed, 
breaking the mirror with their small o's
of their mouths as they breach the air. 


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