Indian Song Indian Song
The stone is hard The stamen & pistil of this flower yet wild yet near The city street is dark This hand, these lips The stone is hard the city street dark The wild woodlands break out open upon the subterranean plains yet wild yet near The city is dark
Nov 20, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Joseph Ceravolo
Untitled Untitled
All winter the leaves stay on this ground the sun The rake, the hoe the furrows the moon All winter embodies The ashes Working insects beneath
Nov 20, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Joseph Ceravolo
Hidden Bird Hidden Bird
Song birds enter the morning the pre-dawn before the fires, you know, when the night floats away like vapor on a lake, or like kisses in the woods. Songs that even creation might not remember. Continuous, threaded, as if a cherry pit were stuck in the throat to produce the trumpet of the branches. So varies, yet never, changing through all the days, since reptiles fell to earth. I give up the reason for the sound I give up the creature of sound and the creator of the creatures and of us and of dawn and air and of vacuum and human inhumanity. I give up the song. I give up the place
Nov 20, 2012 / Books & the Arts / Joseph Ceravolo
Where Abstract Starts Where Abstract Starts
I sit here it is 4:00 Should I say it? Death occurred to me And the fit over bounded My physical thought As I lie here
Jan 31, 2008 / Books & the Arts / Joseph Ceravolo