Sunday, June 29, 2008


The fabric stretched at last

& tore, that patterned silk

When I open my hands

no one is hastening

in risk of rain or traffic

to come to me

Instead this expectation

of disappearance only

a list of what we see & lose

in the refugee summer

when the street names

are on my tongue like dark

honey, wine, & peeled almonds

I remember

your body’s comfort

the bones beneath the skin


At March 24, 2009 7:20 PM , Anonymous marly said...

Hello, Jarvenpa--

Was this one of the "Kayak" poems? It strikes me as one George Hitchcock might have picked.

Strange comfort!

I wonder where this city was. Somewhere in Eastern Europe with Kafka dead.

At March 24, 2009 9:09 PM , Blogger jarvenpa said...

Interesting, marly! No, this one is more recent that the Hitchcock years, but he probably would have liked it.


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