Stuart Welch (1951 / Tennessee, Atomic City)

4 Shorts

In Paris

Somewhere in Paris alone
Watching rain change empty streets
To glistening black veins,
He stumbled.
From the hour and the Pernod.
Now finally, he thought,
I am a poet.

In Sacramento

Hitched from hell with an old farmer.
Slow truck, cold beer.
“Where yah goin’”
I paused. “Home”
“where’s that? ”
I paused again and thought.
I don’t remember where I said.
I lied for some reason quickly.

The sunset that night
Changed hot valley clouds into
Into old buildings and alleys. I think
I cried.

In Narvick

The snow pressed a white face
To the window and Hot white wine and
Cinnamon sticks stirred and let me forget.
A while anyway.
I am walking fire. I burn
Inside waiting with smoke hot.
I am never dark. The smoke of my breath
Is frankincense
And I am transparent

The Death of the Cameo

Or
I am frightened by Transition

Woman,
No more commas.
Commas are pauses
For a breathless moment
Suspended
A slight eddy of Time
And then you move on. No more commas please (I can’t take it)
I will seek and find you something new.
An exclamation point!
And for me a question mark.
And in the middle of the night we will switch
Love, no more commas