winter 2013

the last of the summer flies
buzz in circles on the window sill.
Their evasion of months of cobwebs
and fan blades have earned them
this much. A final hurrah at the warped
window panes, the manic whir
of their magnetic wings;
they drop like anise seeds
and dry into caskets of lint in the light
of late November. They suspected the air
outside was warmer when it wasn’t.
Heat being a factor of magnification.
The physics of glass, sun, and angle
stir the soup of air as invisible as chopsticks.
When the physics of memory
and tables of elements lie.
                                    Same as ever
belladonna casts off her batik scarves
and the fields outside wash to ochre,
umber, sienna, sepia, dun; (sash
weights ripening inside the walls)
a knocking heard from within. Outside
the harvest’s opulence of gourd and blackberry
is revealed by the naked black limbs
of the trees gesture to the lovers
walking their dog up the grass hill where
there is an acorn tree and a hundred
and sixty degree view.
                           Portraiture of cities,
or knots in the tails of kites,
trail vines of smoke that empty off clouds
or shadows of clouds lit up like war.
The radio tower’s aerials blink
their single red eyes
to the contrails of jets
that are trying to spell

Philip Kobylarz