Mike Dillon, Nocturne: New & Selected Poems
Kyoto
Who among us has not grown to consider
what real loss is?
Not loss of grandparents,
(a grief-cape waved at a bull bearing a padded horn)
or even loss of parents (the horn-pierced heart
still beats),
but to wonder if we’ve settled for less
than the world was ready to give,
or to feel, as Basho did,
even if it’s only for one breath-beat,
what it means to stand in the heart of Kyoto
longing for Kyoto.
Scott Elder, Maria
In the Slow Turning
On the side of the road a porcelain doll
one eye broken, the other lidless
drinking starlight as Pisces inches
cold and blind from a bare horizon
she seems to listen without distraction
to the slow turning of an ancient tide
a snail’s foot has claimed her finger
pulls its body to forearm, to shoulder
and settles upon a sculpted cheek
her skin softens to softness itself
she empties and fills like a riptide in autumn
till Pisces pulls away from the circle
leaving her gasping on a barren roadside
shafts of headlight flit among shadows
a lorry roars in the passing
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