Cosmic background radiation
hisses from the phonograph
as you dance
in a long satin dress, black,
holding scotch neat,
inviting me with your hips
to feel the irresistible pull
of dark matter
collapsing into a kiss.
A diamond needle spirals
inward to the groove.
The only sound is a hiss.
~William Hammett
SITE MAP
The man sits on the porch that is dying.
The screens cannot be mended,
and the wood sags deeper than the dog.
The man tells stories, old stories
about a swing and a rock and a jar of toads.
Children listen while the sun
slides from a leaf at the edge of the woods.
A fox, because he is in the habit of stopping, listens.
“I married young,” the man says,
“but my wife died for no apparent reason.
She was buried under a new moon
by a preacher who was pale
and spoke water and stones and nonsense.
I also came to many conclusions about the seasons,
which often trade places with each other.”
The fox knows this to be true and moves on.
The dog, however, has heard this before and sleeps.
“I have given back everything I stole,” the man says.
“Nearly.” He unscrews a jar,
and the children feel more alive and hopeful,
though they do not understand why.
They are almost certain the man has died.
They walk home with old stories,
thinking of water and stones and nonsense.
The light is gone from the leaf,
but the evening is full of toads.
~William Hammett
SITE MAP
The silver rings pass through each other,
the magician pulling them east and west
with a double-hitch of his hands
to show they are locked fast, like lovers.
And then they are divorced,
circles no longer sharing the quotidian mystery
of day and night sliding into each other
as they trace infinity along the equator.
The magician returns home
after the sun has fallen over the rim.
He says nothing to his wife as they eat
on opposite sides of the round kitchen table.
~William Hammett
SITE MAP
Let if be when,
and let when be whenever
the carrier churns its wake
into a frothy Arabian dream.
The children on the roof,
the old men talking coffee and kief,
will be born again
when the afterburners scream.
And then we shall all wake
and thank mighty Zeus
that the wooden horse could lock and load
on the peasant's curtain door.
We will be grateful
that adulterous Ilium burns once more,
that Cassandra's tales of collateral misery|
were the first casualties of war.
~William Hammett
SITE MAP
