Feathered over, predilection forgets which the bond, which the question reality.
As a hand moves around a cone and plane,Spray rises and falls on all sides.
The guide attends the wheel,
And sick from it, the engine starts.
He has a glass eye and we,
Confused, hear him tell us our confusion.
"Because," he wonders, "where we're from."
A dinner of burnt fried flesh, ringing
Until another joke from behind a fire
Mentions someone's home town:
Tulsa, Oklahoma, California.
And now we are dying
Of laughter, only just because
It lingers on your breast
After the lungs, taught with apprehension
Of youth, collapse. Hands twist left over
And the wheel in tow
Guides the boat, amending six teal
And uncountable parallel lines of rope.
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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| Author: | Facchino, Antonio |
|---|---|
| Publication: | Chicago Review |
| Article Type: | Poem |
| Date: | Dec 22, 2001 |
| Words: | 154 |
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