Edith Sitwell Stumbles upon Clumps of Sundew
Still the dew—
translucent as raindrops
sliding down the furry red frills,
the sleek green cheeks
of leaves—will fall
like the rain.
Dark as the bog
from which it came, black
as the moss on a starless night,
soon the moon
will falter
in its course. Soon, the sun
will bleed at the feet
of starving men, and then
Beelzebub
. . . will know them.
© Eliezer Berrios: IMG_20210308_201032198
Fortitude
What fortitude a mountain
has, like an old man leaning
back in his bentwood rocker,
whittling a chunk of wood,
blond curls dropping to his feet,
each peel revealing layers
of resolve. Erosion can
do that to a mountain or
a man. What fortitude lies
within the slope, the foothill,
the hard scrabble of riprap,
the gully wash of pine straw
and last year’s leaves puddling
in the ditch and crevices,
the alluvial complaint
that can be plainly seen from
any distance. Any man can
stand up the way a mountain
can dominate the landscape,
abruptly upright and present.
Digging into the Mist
There’s no wall to lean a shovel on,
no space to place that pick,
no shade to set that spade.
Might as well be digging potatoes
in the backyard or stones that rise
to the occasion or loose bones
in an abandoned graveyard.
You are never in the thick of it.
The deeper you go, the further
it fades away. Turn east, turn west,
take the direction you like the best.
Makes no difference. Mist mystifies,
obscures your vision. Where you’ve been,
where you’re going look the same.
Just like this moment. Dig in.
A Summer Kind of Mind
Sleepless with windows open,
we breathe air sifted through screens.
The breeze lifting the curtains,
sneaking a quick little peek
into the gloom of our room.
One of us stands gazing out
into the glow of the night,
listening for crickets and
night birds. The other of us
watches a halo take on
the shape of a human form
as if an angel had slipped
into the room fully clothed.
We take turns alternating
between all darkness and light,
what is with what might have been.
In Doors
We depend on hardware, waking
from the net of springs and frame,
descending the stairs that rise
and shine into our private
places. We give no more thought
to the jamb, the knob, the lock,
except when we misplace the key.
We hear, pay no attention
to, the hinge squeaking in its
own corner of self-imposed
isolation. We carry
our own weight and take nothing
for granted that we can’t see.
The latch, the chain, the little
people standing on the porch
as seen through the peephole who
lift the knocker, ring that bell.
Our inability to
open up and let them in.