Summer 1991 • Vol. XIII No. 3 Poetry |

Bedrock

Ball without chain, revolving old bone, the moon spills its pale enchantment on the plain. Sidewalks lead us, each star the same gauntlet thrown down time and again, telling us we live in this world and the last, and the next, now or never. So this is the lake I am holding out to you. The stream the blue ox drank, seedbed and ground swell where the tale grew tall, and we rose into those who cannot live long enough, the ocean like a glass of something precious at a tilt. On the exterior walls I think the ads have passed. We can push aside the fragile curtains, our hands like rare birds in the brooding guilt of those who rise above their origins. In lava black, the great glittering cities, where briefly, and in complete sentences, you have to engrave the truth. Black horse, red moon, I want no government, no horizon but a texture, the shore's low shadow. In grass a common nude.

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Gillian Conoley’s seventh collection of poetry, Peace, is forthcoming with Omnidawn this spring. Her translations of Henri Michaux will appear in City Lights Pocket Poets Series sometime this year. She teaches at Sonoma State University, where she edits Volt.

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Beauty Queen

By Gillian Conoley

Ball without chain, revolving old bone, the moon spills its pale enchantment on the plain. Sidewalks lead us, each star the same gauntlet thrown down time and again, telling us […]

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