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Cycles More Horses of Night Andrew Glaze Faithless An Apology of Conscience Desmond Croan Perusing the Fall Catalogue and Dreaming of a Better Life Bobbi Lurie ~ . ~ Cycles Andrew Glaze The awful riots we got used to, what scared us­we spied, blindfold, many-colored mountain caps blowing up, and rainbow eruptions. Blisses arrived, spread. There were forward retreats, (disregarding the manual) Behind them came cheering acres and acres of mock walking-wounded. Ladies put on cockade handkerchief hats, flapped pink flags. Riflemen Preened for painters—climbed cobble piles, heroic. Monkeys teetered up tightropes and fell. Palaces burned. Then it—whatever it is—the world or worse, got bored, after a spell, with barricades, (always has, does, hundreds of times) The academy un-anagrammatized itself out of hiding, got busy inventing who it was, as it talked. What nobilities perked from the rampancy, wiping off! And Language! All that rolling like an oily pig in fat words! ~ . More Andrew Glaze And suddenly from around the corner spruced that clean old maid from nobody guessed where, the one who lifted prim skirts above laced shoes. We gawked, while she got landed estates. Amazing! All around her she dappered up white fences, greened the grass and regulated the careful farms where raced a thousand reined-in horses. ~ . Horses of Night Andrew Glaze          Lente, lente, currite equis nocti—(Ovid) A white ball in the sky springs—like a balloon,          threads eastward, plating the water with silver, fretting brocades. An owl beats the air with feathery mop of wing, slaps at a housekeeping mouse with sharpened shriek. Desperate men fall at the doorways of midnight, the ivy rises, hiding the walls. Monstrous starry skies balance on a pin. Mist lays its cotton batting between hearts and a forest of brambles prowls to the top of the tower. All at once, with a shriek from above up the million-folded field of black gallop out, gallop out,—wool-hoofed and flying—, gallop out the horses of night! ~ . ~ Faithless Desmond Croan What happens if you get stung? Was the question to a friend. I will sing a beautiful note, she replied. Never heard her sing, Though I imagine Before she hiked up the canyon to kill herself No music flooded her veins. ~ . An Apology of Conscience Desmond Croan A el sur, It is with deep regret That I must leave you tonight, I must walk through dangers Of your repossessed streets, That I must leave you tonight. A el sur, Do not be angry. Do not weep as grown men Do not lay verbal tariffs into me, As lashes from whips. Abuelas, I beg you Remind your sons of the earth, Remind your sons of the seasons Which, after years of drought, Produce bounteous crops In the joy of the wetness of the earth. Remind your sons that before the harvest Comes fall and winter. I, being such cold season and wilderness, I must leave you To return as the rain and the sun. ~ . ~ Perusing the Fall Catalogue and Dreaming of a Better Life Bobbi Lurie Oh to pose in one of those chenille trimmed sherpa pullovers, To stretch my wrist in a semiprecious nugget bracelet across the American scenery, To lean over into the face of the enthusiastic daughter I never had, Clad as she is in her soft tweed pants and embroidered Sunday sweatshirt. And oh, to imagine covering my hypothetical son in a featherweight tweed cardigan As we walk along the beach, as I slip off my soft leather slides Or unstrap my velcro strap slip-ons, Not caring if my Kyoto coat gets wet. All I can do is smile in my lettuce edge turtleneck, My mood indigo denim skirt, My washable rayon shirt. And yes, to stand next to that man With Italian stretch trousers And lean against him In my perfect black pants, Waiting for him to touch my tourmaline and turquoise earrings Or new millennium hoops Or my sparkling citrine teardrops, Waiting for him to put his hand on my lone lapis necklace, Letting him decide since all that matters is this longing to touch his perfect face, My fingers laden with listen to your heart rings, My angel heart charm bracelet dripping from my wrist, Letting my hand-knit silk tweed cardigan speak for me, Letting my lighthearted cropped corduroy pants say yes/no/yes/no at the same time, Wanting to drag him down to the handwoven churro wool rug, Wanting to take him into our Parisian garret bed With its rosebud bordered quilt. But admitting over and over how his staring into the camera On the flat sheen of the page Is the way we must stay. And admitting, even happily, that we will live forever in foreplay. Still, I want to let the fall catalogue change me, Standing as I am beside a tree turning yellow, My oversized stitched leather bag in my hand, Filled with nothing But want.