Monday, December 29, 2014

GUSTAF SOBIN ~







Gustaf Sobin





always a chair

at every door; someone

watching

won't see.









through a spray

of gray beads, the scent

of oils,

unguents. . .









even in mid-

summer, small fires, smoke

through

magnolias.









of myself, no

word, no

messages; would wake early, take

trains to the temples.









stout stations in the

midst of

nowhere:

black

waiting rooms, within.









through the

high, rolling

interior: raised earth,

cradled air.









dry wind, dry

rocks, not

even the beggars, there,

say thanks.









over the seared

hills, their rolling

black

rectangles: the sea.









thick cables

of brown hair, quick

fingers

picking at squid.








a moon moving

over the un-

capped

columns: lost digit.








stone drums, stacked

into rows of

brown

tubulous lilies.









face, half-wrapped in

hair, glances

fast

as a needle -fish.








below the

rose domes, green

as leaves, the

young oranges. . .









with skinny rolls of

coins, nuns

buying bus tickets

for Caltanissetta.












really two

worlds, this light, that

dark, these fingers

swimming through. . .




__________________


GUSTAF SOBIN
Sicilian Miniatures
Cadmus Editions
1986






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