Peter Campion Poems
|1.||1989: Death On The Nile||7/7/2014|
|6.||In Late August||7/7/2014|
|8.||Lines After Watching The Returns, 2010||7/7/2014|
|11.||Primitive Figure, Dogu Period||7/7/2014|
Comments about Peter Campion
At first it's just a mist: a neural drizzle
priming the sense of summer dusk and ocean.
Then memory filters down the colors.
Nana stands swathed in electric green.
She has me carrying coats to the shuttered
shade of the living room. The patio hums.
Glasses chime through the flash and clatter.
As if wavering between relief
and disappointment, she cinches her lips.
One line remains unchecked on her guest list.
She mumbles to the air: " . . . Well, they'll be missed."
The perfumed coats lie sleeve to sleeve, ...
a ladybug, its carapace blown open
so a translucent trace of orange gleams
from its body, has ascended link by link
the smudgy silver curve of my watch band.
It must have helicoptered past the sill
while I was slumped here squinting in the paper
at the ashen packaging another bombing's
made of a minivan. Made available
in the photo like the homeless in a poem.