Posts Tagged ‘ Sandra Stone ’

Poetry: Sandra Stone

Ecstasy of Others [:] Treatise and Accounts

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Poetry: Sandra Stone

The Sadness Of Penmanship
by Sandra Stone

Another day’s climate. Tympani on the glass, an amazement of notes cascading. Javelins are my rain, little assassins that pierce the flesh. Someone’s nominal neighbor is inscribing his lawn with arabesques. His machine makes crabbed swipes across the sheer face of it, its steep incline, his shirt quirkily cadenced, his pasty white gut inching out of his belt at every shove, then collapsing in a fold at his waist as his arm subsides. The sight makes me shiver as if my skin had gone amok. There are other examples of hackles and encryption: snowflakes, thumbprints, hair; the calendar, its implicit boxes, one after one. Today, there is sadness in the mower’s preoccupation with the slate he inscribes, the angle of momentum at which rain impacts on a juncture. A wake of rivulets plash at the mower’s boot. The master’s canine arrives at the upstart gravel, a kind of rapture for paws. To someone watching at the scrim, rain is a mordant rebuke—graffiti with a perishable reed. The mortal blade of the mower makes text for a perennial field, calligraphy of the greens. If I were a proprietor of grass, a swashbuckler with scythe, I would have fields crying out for rain, outcry from burrows and habitats, on account of the cuts and the wanting.
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