Poetry Issue 15

   Issue #17 : July-December 2012

Jose Perez Beduya


      Lord, we’ve come to shores
      of piano music very late. Transitional men
      and women. As advertised, we make constant
      cooing sounds. One of us is hiding
      a secret. A massive earache, atonal cliffs
      in a tiny organism. A jilted rider
      and vehicle whipped to weeds. We think the walls
      are the four of us, our moods merely
      surface-effects of a hub-and-spokes
      prison in bed. After buyer’s guilt, amid scintillations, our eyeballs
      roll back to center. Fall reveals
      nests of multi-colored wires
      in the trees and an asthmatic
      fading at his sill. We wring our binoculars to extract
      milk from the sea while our lullabies grow more removed
      and take weeks to completely sing.