Every edge line fades
Inside, out of a world filled albumen.
The thicket mounts the back
Of bisquest, sandstone levies against
The common night. A head
Shaped letter moves into view
And, turning, reveals
That which it's hoping to be. That,
A canine, now of concrete,
Nostril torn by one
As a more consistent blur.
The lap of space twists gray
Into common knots, what is known
To group and disintegrate
Are many undeniable things,
Armlines of one hanged from branches--
Draped with scripted leaves--
Swings in the middle of a scene.
And not a single one remains undilated.
The flies are still, our eyes,
Shocked because the universe requests that,
A rooftop, once set upon
By great walls at the sea
Tears off into the wind to become all
a wake trailed into forgetting,
a let-go-the-bar, a one cracked-open
and another, a shell.
Antonio Facchino lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. He conducts poetry workshops with California Poets in the Schools and works as a Director of Photography for Think Tank Video. Other poems of his have appeared in Santa Clara Review.
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|Date:||Dec 22, 2001|
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