Winter 1984 • Vol. VI No. 1 Poetry |

Speaking of Sounds

For Holley Haymaker So you like that muffled echo, like a runlet's faraway drizzle into a cavern's inky pool, which is the steeped coffee's little fall in the pot? And the puc-a-puc-a-puc-a of plastic sprockets in a toy car—you like that too? Saying so makes me recollect my rod's slicing whistle, the line's soft hum running deep for moments into the mist, and the distant splash. Then just the scrape of a thrush behind me. In that pond bass struck by the reel's third revolution, or not at all. Those poor fish, their last sullen thumps in the ice chest were like ghostly hands burrowing in coins and jewels. Their wet, gray flesh was firm and they did not want to die. Dream- sounds, perhaps variations of the buried bloodbeat, surface in tranquillity. Press a finger on your lidded eye so inner suns glare forth. On the final flicker of those flames, memory of light, our final terror rests. But for now the concussive throb on your fingertip is almost sound itself. Almo

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Black Tree Trunks

By Robert Bly

For Holley Haymaker So you like that muffled echo, like a runlet's faraway drizzle into a cavern's inky pool, which is the steeped coffee's little fall in the pot? And […]

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