May Swenson Poems
|1.||Fountains Of Aix||4/1/2010|
|3.||The James Bond Movie||4/1/2010|
|4.||Sleeping With Boa||4/1/2010|
|5.||That The Soul May Wax Plump||1/20/2003|
|8.||Staying At Ed's Place||4/1/2010|
|9.||Landing On The Moon||4/1/2010|
|10.||Feel Like A Bird||1/20/2015|
|12.||The Tall Figures Of Giacometti||4/1/2010|
|14.||7 Days On The Sea||4/1/2010|
|15.||Little Lion Face||1/20/2003|
|17.||The Shape Of Death||4/1/2010|
|19.||The Woods At Night||1/13/2003|
|22.||Analysis Of Baseball||4/1/2010|
My hands are murder-red. Many a plump head
drops on the heap in the basket. Or, ripe
to bursting, they might be hearts, matching
the blackbirds's wing-fleck. Gripped to a reed
he shrieks his ko-ka-ree in the next field.
He's left his peck in some juicy cheeks, when
at first blush and mostly white, they showed
streaks of sweetness to the marauder.
We're picking near the shore, the morning
sunny, a slight wind moving rough-veined leaves
our hands rumple among. Fingers find by feel
the ready fruit in clusters. Here and there,
their squishy wounds....Flesh ...
Blue, but you are Rose, too,
and buttermilk, but with blood
dots showing through.
A little salty your white
nape boy-wide.Glinting hairs
shoot back of your ears' Rose
that tongues like to feel
the maze of, slip into the funnel,
tell a thunder-whisper to.