October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Her face at three-thirty in the morning is a mysterious page of determination and heart-driven sorrow. Her hands are the scorched music of other faces now grown bone-blue from the small-town life, a life that is now street maps hammering in moondeath. Yes, there is a pattern in this thunder, momentum to the shadow I speak (true even in a night tasting of smoke), and a physical eloquence to the breeze beginning in secret stone passageways. The green lamp of silence shines an excellent distance before saying goodnight. Children of nature circle the colonial village bell.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Dry moon, dry-ice moon on the necklace of stars. History dreams of citizens equal to its electrical work, equal to its imagination and night. Her shattered words burn in clusters near hands and faces that terrify. When the breathing darkens, the lover’s touch breaks off in my hand, and red lips map the composition of crystals and elements. An eighth rest and a laugh, an eighth rest and a laugh. Energetic harvest- rhapsodies descend from a grand heaven flame-driven to churchyards beneath lamplight. This will be the electrodynamics of objects in motion, queen of hundred-year-old wines.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Chocolate chips melted on her chin, her heart spills over. Her voice is full of the poetry I will need in greeting old age with love. Her voice has the Christmas colors that never sleep, full of charmed mornings and singing lovebirds and the waltzing she does after school. She is a rose in the wind, a sparkler blessing everything we believe and every mystery in this keepsake. Her cherry, cherry smiles are as lovely as any daughter’s ever, and I want you deeply to reflect and contemplate upon the sacred faith in the future this voyager creates in us.
