Spring 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1992 |

Dinosaurs

At the end their death was clean in its dimensions, smooth, clear, ivory as porcelain or ice carved out from the local weather. The bones are ideas of what has been: the limitations of strangers flesh the bodies into animals without grace. Your torso shapes itself beneath my hands, your breath is staccato as the traffic outside the window, sick because of some man you once loved. In this city a syllable reminds you of music that thickens the street in Little Italy, where a bruised rib of light on the floor means daylight. The spider on your wall keeps you company for a week. Tonight I'll talk to my daughter and hear your voice explaining the extinction of strangers. Sometimes love leaves the body without a trace like a fly or a wife undressing button by button in harsh light. I watch the bones of your face surface and trace your sunken eyelids with kisses. There's enough to begin with again: the large rooms colored with afternoon and filled with glass cases of our histories, memorie

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Excavation

By Stephen Perry

At the end their death was clean in its dimensions, smooth, clear, ivory as porcelain or ice carved out from the local weather. The bones are ideas of what has […]

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