The Friends of the Rain proved to be pragmatists. The Friends of the Snow, metaphysicians. The Friends of the Rain looked out windows late afternoons and saw all the things saturated and hued and named them: plumage of crows, dome, stoplights, glazing on the swings. Sad women in the attic or creatures grubbing in the mud like crawfish feeding in the stream of needs. One had been to a city and found rain in succulent fruits, in fountains, dripping in tunnels and one had seen through the tiny globes to a delirious world reversed and incandescent that no one believed. Mum’s the word for the Friends of the Snow, they see beyond swings into a salted oblivion. They believe in the cold with its hairline cracks, agents of background and horizon, agents of quantum Buddha, moody energies. The brain removed through the nose, the body embalmed in spices and palm wine mummified in puffy coats of down flown in the mind to the offing or Buffalo betrayed by the smell of something cooking.
Site Report: Syracuse
Poetry