First the harmony:
white sink, flawless but for being faucetless,
gleaming like a queen among admirers,
spoutless gascan deplete of fume
cracked ceramic rooster
giant hose cobra
Above these, the tree,
branches like staves with mirrors
dancing above dead's mute tune
fringed ovals cradling
yellow notes pitching in the breeze
fickle, as though loving
an unreliable metronome
All as symphony –
sparkling dumb harmony
beneath leaves weaving melodies
of the fermata sun.
Rich imagery, Julie, packed with meaning and resonance.
John
Reviewed by Peter Schlosser (Reader)
Reviewed on June 21, 2010
I think I'm a broken metronome. My heart does this metallic little ticking thing; but only twice a day, like the blood has stopped pumping and I'm left to decay.
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