← v18n1, Spring 2019
Poetry · Volume 18, Number 1

The Lost Art of Piping Down

We had long admired the sheen and

The silence of the two pomegranates

In the blue bowl, and will that blue

Bowl not crack with its happiness, its

Surprise at holding so openly what is

In it, and the absence of the seed inside

The stone, and the stone inside

The peach, and the pick in the tool shed

Without its handle or the handle cracked,

And the butcher paper smooth in its

Rolls, the aperitivo drowning in ice on

The green table, the aspergilla emptying

Of their holy water, and the water

Quietly washed in itself, the calm pile

Of agitators in the junkyard, and names

Dropping on the shag rugs, hidden in

Whispers, and the helicopters now

Not chopping up air, the air whole,

The air litmussed and gleaming, and

We stay on the same pages for hours,

And the days of the same pages get

Longer, and the perquisites of this our

Last life, that we can still feel like crawling,

That the upkeep cancels out the downturn,

That we are lucidity, fingers over lips,

The grace given so that we may one day speak.