by Duane Locke 

Across the street the sky has red hair
And combs a Siamese cat
A friendly voice is telling about
Clocks wild flowers woodpiles cathedrals
A stout woman loads a pitchfork of silence on a cart
A girl in blue hoes the rows of quietness
Chickens not confined by commerce to cages
Peck the rain from a pile of hay
Old wooden barns arise out of radiant fields
The light becomes a flock of sheep
The moon is covered by hop vines
And brightened by Sljivovica
Some houses run towards me
Leap into my bones
I have levitated through
The long tunnels of night
The darkness had mouths that were forgotten
Lips with dragonfly wing shadows and large eyes
The only strangers the moon  stars and headlights
I ended on an island submerged under dark waters
Wet dark hands touched my cheeks
My old words flickered and went out
Their light gone, the clothes of old astronomers
And their charts disappeared.
The gloves that were my hands became flesh.
I touched the infinite warm whiteness of the dark
I now feel at home walking alone in this high cold place


Duane Locke lives in Tampa, Florida, is retired from being Poet in Residence at the University of Tampa for over twenty years. He was a professor of Romantic and Renaissance poetry. Also taught Neo-Classical and Victorian courses, as well as Contemporary. He introduced courses in Surrealism and Spanish poetry to the University. Has had over 2,000 poems published in over 500 print magazines such as APR, Nation, Literary Quarterly, Black Moon, Bitter Oleander, and 491. Has won the Charles Agnoff, Edna St. Vincent Millay and Walt Whitman awards. His latest book of poetry, his 14th, is WATCHING WISTERIA (to order see or call 1-800-7553).

Contact Duane Locke

David Eide
September 22, 1999
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