October 25, 2007


Shucked mussels in cellophane, workers tossing
Squares of sod onto the suburban yard
In front of the new, pastel house
Where there have been only two lights on at dusk.

Snow on the gunís nose, snow on the shoulders
Of the Latin scholar leaving the library dust
Behind her, shaking loose her hair

As if the line drawn by the worker to place
The banister more than line, but
An arrow fixed and pointing to the dipperís cup

And the eternal song: all done for the listening ear
Of the hunchback turning toward the magnolia
Blossom unfurled in the window. He turns his sad

Face to the outside, and strolls away, leaning
Into the avenue of opposites, music
From the open throats of mutes, or wind seen
In the maculate mouths of the fluted

Lily. All poison, all trembling to unearth us.

—Pamela McClure

Posted by dwaber at October 25, 2007 04:20 PM