Verse
Weirather, Regina de Cormier-Shekerjian, Elisabeth Murawski, Larry
Elisabeth Murawski Reaching Darien In Rome...
...Elisabeth Murawski Reaching Darien In Rome the cradle city forced to die, lover, friends a world away asleep, your need for magic fevers while you keep watch, flicker of the tongue a speech, a lie to calm the green Severn, his painter's eye possessing you for history...
...the carved nebulas He comes with his mirrors and his alphabets of "The Starry Night" and his mouth-harp made from the breastbone swirl in stone...
...In this' re€uctant spring, your hand silenced by the facts, the dark rattle of the world, you believe reality is the weighted failure of words Larry Weirather to change anything...
...6 June 1986: 347...
...homage to Chagall You promise with a surgeon's face a ghost sprung lightly from the sheets, a painless clock There are days that stops, quick as a thought, hands down...
...of a frog...
...From under his cloak he summons the red violins, the clocks...
...The nebulas lie open labyrinths, the ears of gods coiled like fossil nautili listening in a sea of stone...
...of the rivers, A raving whorl a flight of milkmaids and beggars and lovers of crows roosts in nearby fields untroubled by gravity, and he signs the sound of light, carved and curved and the fist of your life opens, into rye smiles...
...flashes as the last breath flies into stone...
...To rid yourself of grief, Van Gogh Tumulus you say, no longer seems possible...
...the color of gun metal and ashes But seven hours to drown' The taloned coast when you sit at the table grapples while the black surf dives, the fast rock with your face in your hand...
...All light is incoherent according to science, you say and your hand agrees...
...Was it bad vision or loss of madness when we cut off our first car and called it maize, pounding it to stone...
...Newgrange, Ireland The truth of this does not disappear when, one morning, for no reason On this asylum the coachman brings his green eye...
...and your hand moves back to its work...
...The deep Regina de Corrnier-Shekerjian lungs' wrench he's never seen, the final heap Realities of fossil yet unpressed, the crooked sigh...
Vol. 113 • June 1986 • No. 11
