October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Elements of truth clash in my recitation of the yellow sun done in the grand manner when I was alone. The mirrors shake under the fluorescent lights, blessing thunder-lit music that touches the structure. Those at the back of the universe are listening carefully. Behind the elms the well-masoned wall comforts the streets with its quiet music. That the universe is a poetry is agreeable and wild, as wild as thunder and birches and thoughts of morning. Glistening with victory, the glass panics (at great cost). One person is weary, remembering the unconquered and half-asleep newspaper headlines.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
The moon now floating distantly burns my one hour of contemplation out of October with a rude math. Thoughts are crushed poisonously by the wrong temperature. October is a meandering–a street without dreams, a wrong way. Your heart has still wondered what speeds everything. It is a good, long sequence and vision. This is the now we have been needing. Our need for Orange descends through the woods just below capable Orion, and Bootes, ghost with a shield. Gladly warming your hands by the crackling fire you are. A tin twilight waits for you–muddled confrontation, a blue Venus.
October 2000 | back-issues, poetry, William B. Hunt
Rain’s not quite quit. Green at the intersection says go. I remember nights like this in other cities when I thought of myself as the wanderer. Especially I remember Decatur, with its twenty-four hour eggroll shop that resembled a motorcycle garage. Intersections of individuals are just as important to us as memorable street and road intersections. Our cheerfulness has not failed to impress the back-broken night. Buckets of rain–what is there to say about that? I’m just being difficult. Beyond night, what is out there? Your reputation for coping is cracking. Scene requiring a moon spun in.
