curated by Adam Fitzgerald

Saturday, March 24, 2007


Don’t speak to me of love.
I drove the sun’s car and totaled it.

Ruined, light dallied with weeds,
romped through the hairs of old women,
turned rivers to bronze.

I touched those waters with my hands.
It was like fondling a new language.

And where were the verbs? And what
nouns hid like bridge trolls to devour me?

Not understanding a word, I entered the music,
consonant and vowel, glottal and phoneme.

Rivers, forgive me.
There was a woman.
There was silence.
There was the same old pain
wearing its business suit.

I did not go too far -
splash and wavelet,
spew and spar,
I drove the sun’s car
and totaled it,
setting loose a thousand shadows,
one of which hid in the weeds
and frightened me into song.

by Joe Weil (b. 1958)