October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
Many rainbows of fire, many bursts against the slate of the night sky. Bursts within bursts. How can you describe fourteen balls of white flame pouring upward into the night one after another? Painting in the sky. Bursts of gold turning blue. Pieces of red fire holding in the air minute after minute without moving. Red, green, blue, yellow, white flecks all at once. Lasting and expiring flowers made of long gold flames. Hilarious carnations stamped upon space. A high trellis decorated by elusive spangles. Loud charges going off, the whole heavens a fireplace. Decimated cold cherries, a night network.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
The cold lace dress with four pearl buttons, a tapestry of snow, a gentle sash, frills under the chin. She seems to be covered with layers of lace, wrapped in deep drifts and piles of lace, with a corsage on her wrist. The dress is patterned with a whole book of different flowers, shy flowers tucked in around her sleeves and waist. Betty Crocker never made a better cake than her ivory creation made for twirling tonight, perfectly made to veil such a beautiful girl who may twirl or curtsey and not show the knee. She bows like frosted cake.
October 2000 | poetry, William B. Hunt
I don’t know if I would be a very wise person if I tried to describe to you a girl I met named Schaelina Valarian. I suspect her of things, of witchcraft and terrible cooking. She has almost convinced me to accept that torchlight of her smile, haven’t you, Valarian? But she will break free and run if you try to start thinking that she is a nice person. She is made of snips and snails and sugar and spice. I don’t write poems about the dead! I write poems about living people, praising the sweet lightning striking in them.
