poem index


Lola Haskins

Printer-friendly version

by this poet

                 St. Augustine

Light shafts down on 
the assembled congregation of sails 

billows my shirt      sends me to where thin countries 
stretch like needles    to a low and distant shore 

from which    suddenly     canoes appear
He is rid away to the tenant farms 
and I take up my pen to list 
the shakings-out and openings. 
And my thin letters lean as sails 
that, though driven, cannot arrive.

May the ninth, I write.
And: Mrs. Ferguson. 
Unbutton the bed pillows 
and plump them to the air.
Then: Take the curtains down 
and with your
I'm crossing the river where it narrows,
carefully, it being Sunday
and I'm past the root end of the log
when I look up,
and there's a haunt sitting
on the blossom end.
I can see trumpet vine and blackberries
through her white dress.
Gnats hang in the air.
The river runs, red-brown and deep.
The haunt sings