Terese Svoboda Poems

Mother burns on the other side of the bridge.
...

The silence water makes,
and waterfowl on their mark.
...

A stick, pared clean—no, a silver-topped
bamboo-with-dagger, class doubling as club,
the advantage of gravity lifted high
...

She dances only in her necklace,
scotch-lit surely. He touches his glasses.
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You don't need a machine to do that.
A plastic bag will do. But he built it,
his tools cast about in the unit
while he got up his nerve to use it.
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A name or idea settles on me
while this dove flies an eight
over the wainscoting, while wind
overcomes it, flap by flap,
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All the ivy ever cannot
cover what you see
in peekaboo. The great fly-by-
nights, Satan and his fold,
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Who goes there? Hamlet
in hirsute, nude as a pickle,
dragging the skull as toy.
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Who loots the dew or enjoins
a shadow to guard a tree?
The bird in the pie can't pretend
to arms, its claws rock
...

A De Chirico head aslant on a coverlet,
body mostly flown, the dazed prayers dumb.
...