Carol Goodman
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From The Sonnet Lover
From Pythagoras in Love
From Talk Between Leaf and Skin
A Bespoke Poet

From Talk Between Leaf and Skin

Late Sunlight

breaks the water
into myriad oblong shapes
boundaried by thin light.

Above this shallow pool
rise mountains so high up
their snow shrouded summits
gleam like bright cold clouds.
A lone hawk bisects the blue
beginning now to darken
to crimson rose of twilight.

Letís live here forever,
you whisper in a voice
that might as well have rippled
from a pebble tossed
into the pondís mirror.
Your green eyes are as deep
as air beyond the peaks.

We love the rock pure silence
shattering our doubts,
even as we rise as one
and listen to the light.

The Alligator

An alligator is standing upright
outside my fourth floor window,
belly yellow and moist,
eyes blinking back afternoon sun.

I open the window to let him in,
ready to flee as I do so,
but he prefers to stand, tail-balanced, ledge-perched,
wind brushing the scales on hihs back.

I call the Fire Department,
but they refuse to believe he is there.

Scientists say that a part of our brain
goes back to a reptilian past,
so perhaps part of mine has crawled out from my skull
and is whiling away the afternoon
in a form as vivid as flesh.

At dusk he leaps and soars toward the sky,
dark eyes shining in red sunset wave
as though they emit fire,
the same that warms our veins.

Talk Between Leaf and Skin

A drifting leaf flattens itself
against your forehead in the rain.
Tingle...its skeletal delicacy traces
the history of wood against dewy skin
and you arrest the impulse to cast it off,
letting your hand drift back to youur side.
It has more to tell you: the pain it feels
each October, the parallel between its notched edges
and convolutions in your brain,
filament veins in its green thin flesh
and how they spell out genetic Scripture
of the same sort thatís proclaimed your being,
a  mere inch or two in the passage of eons
separating its spear from your five-fingered hand.
Almost as if itís a map of synapses
from which once arose the snap of thought
in fog of primordial simmer.
But then a gust of wind tears it
sharply away, as if flesh from bone
that in trans-species love craved its gentle
adhesion.  Much more could have been said
but when you pluck a replacement
from the shadow of towering oaks
and press it to your forehead,
all you get are cold and silence
in the sting of autumn rain.

 

For rights inquiries regarding Lee Slonimsky please contact Ocean Partners LP

 

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