Photography © Edward S. Gault
Soft frigid white
makes rubber spin out
and feet fall on their back
Leaving infinitely reflecting mirrors,
holding enlarged prehistoric spoon,
we scrape at white to reclaim pavement.
Our silos, where grain is stored,
sleep behind tightly-shut windows and tinted shades
The sharp sun, bouncing off the snow’s refractory gaze
shreds Dali’s sliced eyeball, yielding fresh, new
ultra-real scenery enmeshed in azure and immediacy
Neighbors, too –
away from vicious hut,
where closed windows are locked in stampede
renaissance, revisioning tribalist worlds
where everyone’s stricken with
contagious disease –
realize you are there, across the street,
also using prehistoric enlarged spoon
to lessen the boot-and-rubber’s slip and slide.
When enlarged spoons
stop biting into white pavement,
like the telepathic brewing of morning coffee
And for a moment, siloed peacock brains melt
We’re back tilling ancient soil on landed Chaldean estate…
Realizing, for a second
that we’re all in this together
As a prolific author from the Boston area, Peter F. Crowley writes in various forms, including short fiction, op-eds, poetry and academic essays. In 2020, his poetry book Those Who Hold Up the Earth was published by Kelsay Books. He likes to eat pizza, buffalo wings, hummus and biriyani but, please, just don’t put onions or mushrooms on his pizza.
Edward S. Gault is a poet and fine art photographer. He lives at Mosaic Commons, a co-housing community in Berlin, Massachusetts.
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