October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Sibyl and Heather (shall I write this?) are speaking the same language these days. They live in each other’s homes and, to be concise, never get out of the same bed. They dance enchantingly there, stopping at nothing, slam-dancing under the sheets. Some days the natural universe is completely mysterious. Autumn is ripping a lot of vegetation out of my city just as I speak. I will hold with the density of her thoughts and the mirth belonging to my utterly full pool of spring water which she is. Sibyl, whom I shall see again before this century’s out.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
My enchanting home, my home in metal needs no name but needs order, rhythm and form set against chaos, and detonation of Black Seas of chordless music. I throw my glassful of pink champagne at you, your heart no stronger than a violet in mountain shadow. How many small roots lie under the world’s firm soil. I have earned the right to determine the secret message in the glaze of mist, and I shall write it down in my native language in all stages of its natural life. I can read the mountain’s chemistry by day, and night’s sheer flaring.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
There is a democracy to the glittering color of the strings in motion, a lore of light, a sun in a night sky. Out at sea, someone brainstorms the birth of a new string quartet. They can almost blurt it at the waves. The prism in my dream is gone. I remember the fifty primary words I need in December, including ballet, champagne and embroidery, and I know I have as many things to say about the bright side of the moon as about the dark side. Setting sun seen through a frosted windowpane. Stand back and we’re a constellation.
