INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Duane Locke
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SPANISH VILLA I ascend, clinging to white stucco. Terra-cotta shadows trace our delight. LISTENING TO VIVALDI'S CONCERTO FOR TWO MANDOLINS WHILE DRIVING TO WORK Two mandolins stir my coffee. Two geese fly across the road directly above me. Their green necks outstretched as though threading their oval souls through the expansive eye of the infinite. WOODEN GATE* June opens its windy mouth. A while cayenne pepper blossom trembles between the green shoulders of narrow leaves. A wooden gate rattles the latch, its cool handcuffs of insomnia. (*
pub. in Puerto do Sol) |
Ann Arbor Review |
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