Treno verso nord
To the left a climbing sea, there and far,
the cry grew only direction.
A loose refrain of granite and supposed forms,
under every movement.
Hear the exact skies, a journeyed breath
tuning to chicory, no question
or wild gladiolus, just tracing,
never decided.
I am real, after all, prima donna
said gravely as her spotlight.
Ponte del Diavolo and hilltops
cast no consonance. Upon strangers,
a conflagration in the veiled cascade.
The fine technique of river swifts,
colors of the potter sweetened by lacquer
twitching the flower from each young lime.
Uttering beyond knuckles of hillside,
he is incumbent, polite,
and the air is thin.
Closer to Winter / Più vicino all’inverno
Waiting for a certain bus,
the old woman in the arch
revealed a photo of milky rapids,
tasted salted stone, and saw her own
reflection in the night’s order.
She was scolded for leaving
through the wrong door
and told everything was lost
when falling in love.
In the pain of viewing symmetry
at The Devil’s Bridge,
she made a print of tiglio trees
and held stretches of weeks
sunken into twin depths.
If she had called him by name,
the shock of fissured rime,
linden trees, the first ice,
the dormant master
would not be willing
to lose her forever.
B. Anne Kalicki’s poetry, fiction, and reviews can be found in NOON, Meridian, and Juked, among other places.
Image: Zosia Szopka, unsplash.com
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Heavy Feather Review 