to death sure red wine and the mustiness of the sea From Margie/The American Journal of Poetry on a foggy day - the odor of truth Volume 2, 2004 and of lying. Copyright 2004 Arlene Tribbia. And the words are so familiar, All rights reserved. so strangely new, words Reproduced with permission you almost wrote yourself, if only in your dreams there had been a pencil 47. Relearning Winter or a pen or even a paintbrush, Mark Svenvold if only there had been a flower. Hello Winter, hello flanneled from Heroes In Disguise, 1991 blanket of clouds, clouds W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY fueled by more clouds, hello again. 46. Sure Hello afternoons, Arlene Tribbia off to the west, that sliver of sunset, rust-colored I miss my brother sure and gone too soon. he drank Robitussin washed down with beer And night (I admit to a short memory) sure he smoked dope you climb back in with chilly fingers & shot heroin and clocks, and there is no refusal: & went to prison ice cracks the water main, the garden hose for selling to stiffens, the bladed leaves of the rhododendron an undercover cop shine in the fog of a huge moon. & sure he robbed And rain, street lacquer, the only hot dog stand, oily puddles and spinning rubber, town’s like I overheard mist of angels on the head of a pin, Gino’s while I laid on my bed hello, staring up at the stars under slanted curtains and snow, upside-down cake of clouds, white, freon scent, you build & sure he used to even as you empty the world of texture- leave his two year old hello to this new relief, son alone so he could this new solitude now upon us, score on the street upon which we feed. but before all this from Soul Data, 1998 my brother sure University of North Texas Press, Denton, TX used to swing me up onto his back, run me around dizzy through hallways and rooms & & laugh we’d laugh fall onto the bed finally and me he’d tickle
red wine and the mustiness of the sea on a foggy day - the odor of truth and of lying. And the words are so familiar, so strangely new, words you almost wrote yourself, if only in your dreams there had been a pencil or a pen or even a paintbrush, if only there had been a flower. from Heroes In Disguise, 1991 W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY 46. Sure Arlene Tribbia I miss my brother sure he drank Robitussin washed down with beer sure he smoked dope & shot heroin & went to prison for selling to an undercover cop & sure he robbed the town’s only hot dog stand, Gino’s like I overheard while I laid on my bed staring up at the stars under slanted curtains & sure he used to leave his two year old son alone so he could score on the street but before all this my brother sure used to swing me up onto his back, run me around dizzy through hallways and rooms & we’d laugh & laugh fall onto the bed finally and he’d tickle me to death sure From Margie/The American Journal of Poetry Volume 2, 2004 Copyright 2004 Arlene Tribbia. All rights reserved. Reproduced with permission 47. Relearning Winter Mark Svenvold Hello Winter, hello flanneled blanket of clouds, clouds fueled by more clouds, hello again. Hello afternoons, off to the west, that sliver of sunset, rust-colored and gone too soon. And night (I admit to a short memory) you climb back in with chilly fingers and clocks, and there is no refusal: ice cracks the water main, the garden hose stiffens, the bladed leaves of the rhododendron shine in the fog of a huge moon. And rain, street lacquer, oily puddles and spinning rubber, mist of angels on the head of a pin, hello, and snow, upside-down cake of clouds, white, freon scent, you build even as you empty the world of texture- hello to this new relief, this new solitude now upon us, upon which we feed. from Soul Data, 1998 University of North Texas Press, Denton, TX
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