Roberta Gould


Let the guitar strings travel
out to the edge of the circle
where the lines of the page also reach

There’s a basket of eggs
and a bowl of grapes on that table
surrounded by red

The rest lacks all color
except for the yellow that calls up
the walls of Carcassonne
and wheat fields

Your face goes mylar
And when your mouth reaches 10th Avenue
the sun says--Halt!
Return to yourself!
It’s not river time.

So you contract to your skull
and, though your eyes, hollow with fright,
seem to cry for comforting,
you do what you must and are back in that frame
where you safely watch the sun
bronze a commuter bridge



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