Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Da mio cucina
Gangs of swallows drawing eights
Around the tiles and antennae.
Diving, gliding, turning, not noticing
The call she didn’t want to get.
Words pacing her back and forth,
Gesturing punctuation, sentencing.
Floating, her steps quickened as
The truth pierced her heart.
Completing so perfect a design,
Pain became the black dot in white
Making it one, making it whole.
William Padgett, 21 June 2005