Summer light, /thick as honey, pooling in squares at our feet:/ we ask to be touched, before being taken.
A CONVERSATION: POEMS ARE MADE OF THESE
Take a look at this strophe, Stick, and weep.
If that’s not a tease, I know it is poetry. How so?
If that’s not a tease, I know it is poetry. How so?
Summer light in squares thick as honey catches
us aquiver with blends of what eyes can see
us aquiver with blends of what eyes can see
that tongues can lick, a mélange of what rooms
can become when—as palaces of leaves—they
can become when—as palaces of leaves—they
transform into sylvan hideaways engulfing
all who are bewitched by redolent fragrance
all who are bewitched by redolent fragrance
come like warm palms caressing cold backs
that must be touched. Poems are made of these,
that must be touched. Poems are made of these,
Stick, like a strange amalgam of brew salving
the hurt and the lonesome before they sleep.
the hurt and the lonesome before they sleep.
I need that brew tonight, Stick, before I sleep.
—Albert B. Casuga
05-27-11
05-27-11
Poem Prompt: “Letter to Myself, Reading a Letter” by Luisa A. Igloria, Via Negativa, 05-26-11 http://www.vianegativa.us/2011/05
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