From  Shelf

6.

And then there is this:

Handfuls of substrate

In the kitchen

Overhead, a raincloud

Accumulates like an argument,

Bursts and is gone

Or it can happen

Otherwise, vatic

Announcements

Glide from the tongue,

Kindle into fire

And eat themselves

The morning passes

Into noon

Imperceptibly, a calm

Intransigence is

All around us

Then it too passes,

Day becomes afternoon,

Darkness

On the grass

And over everything.

If one could win

At this

What would one win?

At dawn

The breeze

The tiny death

And a fat 

Ampersand

As

Answer.

7.

Have you known

It in your heart?

If so, then what is

Around

The thing understood?

If there is enough

In the jars on the shelf

Then make me stew

Empty the

Flour into the saucepan,

Find some lard,

Four cloves,

Fenugreek and peppercorns,

Fry the onion

Uncork a red,

Ingest with gusto

And leave it for a day.

8.

There

In the intimacy overheard

There by the windowsill

In this cheap

Trim room

Is where I found heaven.

There are places

That are forever

True to us,

This

Tiled hotel

Teaches me still

To pay heed

To the city’s various

Wavelengths;

Warm summer nights,  

Whispered decorum,

Angry voices

In the court.

9.

They

Turn

Toward

The stew

It is good

In winter,

Its spicy

Aggregates.

10.

All the hurt

We

Inflict

Knowingly, the

Failure

To understand,

Mean-hearted talk

To those

In a fragile

Youthful place

It will

Haunt us like a nimbus

On a hospital bed

Sheet.

They live

In peace

That look

Around them

And see that

All things

Are themselves

And of the mass,

Hunger and lunch

Is slave and master.

Copyright © Rufo Quintavale, 2009

The first five sections of this poem are up at www.retortmagazine.com