![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-wUf7utkmB3qZMy-GE4FtrGGh3K3JiTl8j_SshG6w9fhvPM-YnkOHzmv6v6O_MxTZe2PR0VKCfDNeKFPi39gfJwAJWY4jYgs7qygHfyAe5oMUxV12dPcIdIFpw2781eFrzIXaDBwhPbc/s280/Elke-Henning-People-Women-Fantasy-Contemporary-Art-Contemporary-Art.jpg)
Painting by Elke Henning
invisible years
chickadees in cedars
winter a boy in
short sleeves
he doesn’t
dial the day
she strings a tile of suet to
a bare twig yearning yes
yes a gypsy choir:
fat & very
seed full
a poet shaves the wood
with its blue ice tongue
or how Italo Calvino
whets the world
with a large of
women: his breath
sharp as the dog
who has eaten
the last
moon
o her innocent eyes
painting mornings
cold with bowls
of fresh milk
buttered
toast & who
uncovers
his long
tide—
a boy
steals a cherry
wand—the girl naked
who sees the cedars felled
& he draws a line in the sand &
fish like silver thumbs jump up into
his mouth & she sings slowly into the smoke of
a ghost an old man carrying the crown
of Kublai Khan
his fingers on fire & a gown of big eyes—
the stars—invisible years—brighter & far
& someone who remembers where
she named the boy in the silence
of all those hills;
the invisible years spent to get to this word
Richard Lance Williams
Posted over on More Poetry
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