Sweet Chill

by Vernon Frazer and Michelle Greenblatt




Trees twist in the soft-baked wind that winds around the garden.


         How cold it is



                                        out here, the searing chill


                                        burning my face cold.


Even the warm whispers of breeze harden to spirals listing


             mute among the palms


which sway back and forth in the warm wind.



                                 The heat is its own contradiction.



A sweltering iceberg, secret as its melting surface,





from the bay,                        a blatant progression


of music



                                         the cracks

                                                          of time.


Backwards is the way to homeland shelter


beneath the star-lit palms of your progression



from silhouette to heartland sun, a slow balm


calming the sweltering regression handed



to us by our mothers and our mothers before them.


Hand to hand touching has always been the same as face







        for me,


                            the gift


                            of repression


as seen through the steam swelling a blackened eye


                              or others that have been given to me in surround


                                         -sound while I wept


          flames of declarative sentences


                   fastened around the audio's sweet chill