Fall 1980 • Vol. II No. 4 Poetry |

With Horace

With Horace I take my stand beside the rocks and clear falls. I will not be confused by sound or the stone's hardness, being bone and brittle. Voices emerge from me and hardness takes from me its quality, for Horace lived upon a mountainside and made shapes that were not pliant. He dug for rock, as I am of the born elements compressed. Did he crush his vineyard underfoot? Did he mix with the rain and the rivers? Who gave him grapes to grow? Hard money. And am I sick then, being happy? He entered a stone house and struck off his fire upon stone. 

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Whole Hours of Us

By James Reiss

With Horace I take my stand beside the rocks and clear falls. I will not be confused by sound or the stone's hardness, being bone and brittle. Voices emerge from […]

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