Beckon

Dead cooled spots in the air,

others bright and richly colored as opera,

my elderly dress is worn out,

torn up dumped

another thing the mad made.

Saddles laid on the outside to dry,

vowels left up in the air as if something is better

left unsaid as if I could have.

And fact is music's mute half,

a determination broken into,

the half tone of a husband

waiting alone in a car,

so that single the sun warrants a r mane.

A figure passes quickly

in the ever-unquiet breath

of you, you, you and sometimes me

The futurity nude, an absolute night

troubl by means of how we will live up

to the day's following of images in full sail,

as wind pen s other things,

and ink branches and conceives.

Last night was floral,

a satin comforter fell

into violence, old

strangely beautiful voices

in the thin thread of my dreams

in the thin thread of my speech

I was embarrassed

because I wanted

lines in the face

and the tears that step quickly down them

to bring me luck's child.

I had a dream like seconal, inclined to sleep rule of birth,

odor of seduction. I had alone prayer, prayer

and science. upon a street young girls gathered,

loud with nothing to say, as in an attempt to explain a local fire.

Gillian Cronoley's of recent origin collection, Beckon, is forthcoming from Carnegie Mellon University Pres In 1995 Conoley won a Pushcart Prize, She teaches at Sonoma State University and edits Volt

Copyright World numbers Incorporated Mar 1996

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