Dying curtains impart their frail pulses
to stale air. The vibraphonist alone with his mallets,
harmonies lifted to a blue guardianship
just below the ceiling. When the building was new,
all the stewardesses lived here, not much
of a draw for him, of course,
Perhaps your poetic metaphors are over my head, but how do curtains die or have pulses. I don't understand the rest, I'm sorry to say.
shrieks racketing up from the pool, the steep river
of everlasting jets rising from Oakland International Airport.
A Texas boy in late October forging through faded corn,
rattling corn closed as he passes, closed behind him
on house, barn and sheds, on overalls pinned
The first line is good, I like the description in this though it doesn't make sense. You say "through faded corn, rattling corn" and I don't think you should say corn twice in three words.
to the squealing pulley line, on his old dog at the
edge of the road watching for god knows what.
Swollen within its dream of music and young men,
the vibist’s apartment. Once in a great while the dark,
somber student with such a gift that his own
Odd line break. I like the part about the dog.
Swollen is a good descriptive word. gives over to it and there is nothing more
he could want than that suspended sound
trembling in expectation of its own repetition.
When the curtains are tied back, his ocean view
includes a long rock wall upon which fleets of pelicans,
Your linebreaks suck. I don't know what's poetic about it but it makes it confusing and hard to read. Suspended sound trembing...love that part. god another horrible line break...
patient in the slack draperies of their skins,
stream salt water. He was a thin boy running for the school bus,
watched from every window by thick-petalled, magnolia faces
soured by a finicking contempt for the sweaty, lanky
bumble of himself. On the monthly death
I like the description of the boy.
anniversary of a neighbor’s son, a bell jar at the base
of the mailbox fills with fresh flowers. Overhead,
flyways are raucous with sky fish. Silver time strikes
silver keys, in closed rooms curtains stall between
unapologetic sunset and the carpets’ desperate hoarding
of their dust.
Brilliantly done. Bravo. "Silver time strikes silver keys," BRILLIANT. it's lovely. The first thing that I truly liked. And everything after that was lovely too.
This wasn't my favorite. Perhaps it was my least favorite because it was a jumble of description with no deep thought until the last four lines. It wasn't enjoyable to read, in fact it was a downright chore. I didn't understand half the words in your superior vocabulary.
