October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
The tears in your Cherokee snow-heart bend my life (which is a badly dented teakettle) toward spring water, and my eyes and memories in blood-structure sear face and heart. I have heard autumn’s glass rivers glaze and break free again and again, and I drink to them. Black aircraft enter a singing death. The music in the painter returns: is sent forth and returns. So glitter we from Haydn to Dryden and from Dryden to Haydn. Of unsound design is the cola made of fresh violet, and only halting celebration in our years. Exemplar! Exemplar! Whose clutch drifted.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
There is density in my need to express. I wonder how long this will be true, how long it will be before the words might cool down. I wonder if I will see them cool down. I wonder if my eyes will see a panorama before me every day. I would sit with those who have given up everything for their word-jewelry, their word-sunlight. I should write more about the sounds of empire, but we fear empire if we want a human world. We don’t want the chords to break off. A drenching afternoon rain improves the weather.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Cassandra, say what you mean in this cool afternoon, say what you choose, sing the song in every detail until it detonates in the hearer like a hundred angry roses onstage with a lightning unforgettable–we shall listen as though you were singing from the unreal. Such violet achievements resemble words from the Cherokee tongue. I am alone now with the Cherokee word for “tears.” Moisture is invitation to experience the highest love. The heart must be moist if we are to make our researches among tints and clutch the universe to our core. Our future shall be fusion’s power.
