Spring 1984 • Vol. VI No. 2 A Gathering of Poems |

Creating Something out of Nothing

There is no dance in the field this afternoon. No girls have come barefoot in yellow silk, Turning and shouting, "Our movements are called Seven Goldfish Rising through Sunlight Underwater," Shouting, "The way we weave through the grasses Is called Frightened Ground Doves Just Prior to Flight," No dancers shouting, "This circle we have formed Is called Framing the Vacancy We Can Never Recognize Exists In the Spring Field This Afternoon." And eight boys are not running together flying blue kites, Moving down the hillside like cloud shadows Easily becoming the bodies of weeds And rock tortoises they cover. No one holds the lost Strings of the eight dancing kites seen from below As the undetectable blue paper part of the sky. The missing audience doesn't notice That no one hides out-of-sight below the ridge Cued to come cartwheeling into view When the thistle butterfly first touches The microscopic tip of its toe to the purple Blade of the burdock. No one with a megaphone has

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Rhythmic Brushwork

By Pattiann Rogers

There is no dance in the field this afternoon. No girls have come barefoot in yellow silk, Turning and shouting, "Our movements are called Seven Goldfish Rising through Sunlight Underwater," […]

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