three from Doug Bolling

Meditation 6

Shadow in the ice cream.

Words adrift as though small boats

in storm, blue/green.

The path through a painted forest

wherein the hawk the owl

the skeletons of the bemused.

0h Hypnos where were you when

the clatter woke us.

Where the answers that promise

a dancing moon.

In the rubble the lovers search for

the clothes of their several selves.

Words bend and break in the

toxic river of childhood.

I will bring wine and bread a

decent Parmesan.

Will open the curtain on

Act Five just in time.

0ur steps in the shadow.

0ur eyes that measure the edges

in their long slide


Meditation 7

Gather the diaries from the hands

of the dead.

We reach. We hold the abacus

overhead to count the sun.

A recovery of your Proust

in leather bound.

The single cello swooning

through the summer mist.

Shadows that have fled the light

just to be. Be.

And you Joanna you who consoled

me in the bistro of the wounded.

Who made words from the webs

of spiders and invited me

to listen.

How you promised to join me

in the quest for lonely Gilgamesh

in his delicious grief.

Wherever the dead go for

the password.

Meditation 8

The wars among the hominoids.

Giant turtle slumbering on that

Sicilian stone.

But how the echo below

the shadows.

How the orchestrations

of the lamented dead.

Your ontogeny. My ontogeny.

Did you say we're wrapped in skin

like an undecided blanket?

The questions left behind

in the plastic bag.

The memories you sliced into

pieces and offered for dinner.

How so life the polygon of

numerous degrees, a multifold

of scattered pages left

unread unwashed.

Luv the way you fondle the scree.

A shaping into mounds a lighting

of the candles to occupy

the wine.

The way you painted the schist

into a still life and called it

"Cezanne Remembering."

But goodbye, goodbye. Those cries

beyond the spume the foam.

A trip outward destination

unknown unscripted.

So did they.

Did they discover us in that

stolen bottle.

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