by Alex Broadwell
Amble on Down
Under green fields
I saunter, covered
in gossamer furs,
in some danger of
losing the cemetery
hymn-books. And
with a worried
glance I will drop
the whole pile,
my rattling arms
porcelain columns.
Janizary music ascends
the village tower,
streets covered deep
with snow. The bells
give signal as the
dreaming mindplates
roll across the floor,
tumble and fall,
pile up at her
cool doorstep.
Sodden Earth
unbearable
damp summit
plaster head
scalped so
by the
patient
how cold
the knees
become on
such occasions
experiments
of a feather
scissors sharpened
on night bells
mad adventures
in a blistering stream
resemblance uncovered
in the open air
travellers stuck
there lightly
****
Alex Broadwell is a filmmaker and film archive worker living in Piru, California.