Donna Pucciani





The horizon is a stone elephant
humping the world like an old sadness,
crepuscular gray curved gently
as a hazel iris cups a dilated
eye widened by grief.

The horizon slits cloud
the way the collar of a manís tux
cuts his stout neck, or the strap
of a womanís sandal bisects
the arch of her foot, caught
in a vise of mortality.

A whetstone sea grinds todayís sky
into smudged charcoal, the cleavage
of earth and ether a cobalt crayon,
its lineation thick as night against crescent
moon, breast against bodice of black silk.

The dark blur of fog smears the lipstick
of a casual kiss, a leaky memory
slowing the mind, snow clotting
in February sun, binding heaven
and world in a paste of crushed pearls.


Copyright © 2004 Donna Pucciani.  All Rights Reserved.


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