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
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
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