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Grey Sparrow Journal

Issue 30, July 31, 2017
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The Long Summer

 

 

 

There are no birds. Not even a sparrow or crested pigeon.

A dog sprawls in the middle of a quiet road.

 

I read about white herons, but cannot see them. Even if

flocks were flying low, light fills the sky like smoke.

 

A goddess whispers to the grass, tells it to grow;

the monsoon torrents that fill empty canals are far.

 

At night wild animals come down the steep mountains,

gather in a park, cast spells on sleeping men to love.

 

The men get drunk here. Like large watermelons stacked

on the side of a road. Pine trees aslant on mountains.

 

Nature is close, but not until the tourists leave. A bay

collects rocks and trees that fall from the slopes. 

 

It is close, so close, that fish fly over to live in clouds;

the fish look like birds covered in mirrors.

 

I see the moon for the first time in a month. I find a scar

I haven’t seen in years, watch pomegranates turn red.

 

At midnight, tongues lick salt off the air. Pop music plays

about men doing things to women, but no one notices.

 

Fig trees hold fruit picked open by mystical beasts;

red seeds ready to fall, between the hotels and apartments.

 

A cat lies on soil under shade. A leaf falls.

We open our balcony door, but it is not private.

 

Soon we will talk about flying fish, the grass and the sea.      

When we talk, only the birds will know. When they come.

 

 

                                                                                  -Ion Corcos