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
