Voices
The circular fronds of ferns
Would unfold in my voice and become fern leaves.
This was in my childhood voice
Before I saw salt water squeezed out of sponge,
So the sponge could be used to wipe the dust
Off the painted lips of a plaster Madonna,
Off the curls of gutta-percha sweet angels.
I then would recline on gum-tree creek banks,
Listen to the voice of ferns. Ferns taught me
To love blonde sand, the shape and color of apples,
The water splashed by the leap of the dolphin,
Not the black plate glass of the tall buildings
Reflecting the hips of store-window dummies.
Duane Locke
Posted over on Eclectica
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