Fall 1988 • Vol. X No. 4 Poetry |

The Silence

As I close my eyes, I can see the village and its plan, askant my line of vision. Tilt this, one melts to its plan; lift, the village is in one piece, its existence from limestone, its diagram a street in which no car can pass another. A donkey's ambling width. As I pass, their stare catches me by the shoulder, their shadows gone still as a lizard in flight changes the lines of its short, tailless life into a radiating mass of lines waving frail limbs and feet in stone. All stone cracks, all cracks are lizards. No sawn blocks but rock scooped, as a natural prison is. No grass, or tree through which a bee treads its shadow, counterfeit of self, over the leaf blades. Man, animal and woman stand stripped of shadow among the stone; its targeting flaky as a blister dried to its face. I stare at my palms, their milky abrasions, the pale veins in the wrist, the whitened character and life-lines. Sea and rock caught together in a concurrence of stone and tons of soft salt force, the

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