Blesok no. 40, January-February, 2005

Wide digital almost sky

Craig Czury

there was no other pretense

each day a legendary search for the lost
cry of children in the woods
each day a woman leaves her house
walks into the woods looking for her children
each day she falls in love with a tree
makes love to it and walks home before it gets dark
each day a woman leaves her home
walks into the woods looking for her children
each day she wraps her arms around the trunk of a tree
rubs herself against it until the tree quakes
until she becomes a rope of hair
then walks back home before it gets dark
a woman searching for her children
walks into the woods but there aren't any trees
she keeps walking to the other side
silvery and shimmering
ahead of her the gravel is shimmering

for Heather

the air between you sitting
where we are not yet dressed beyond
and you aloud
    reading from the newspaper
even without my glasses
there are more lost than gone forever
just moving your lips to pronounce
across town a knot rises in the throat
whose name is now ours

In My Silence To Justify

we're sitting in dark corners smoking
    the middle of the day
sitting in dark corners talking in low tones
    middle of night
in dark corners filled with our dead
    hours into centuries
the dead who are also tucked away in dark corners
    as if they're thinking
    as if they're quietly reading the situation
    as if almost an air of self-satisfaction
    walking our women home at night
    confident nothing's wrong
our women who're acting uptight
nervously pretending nothing's wrong

For Years

i look at people in the eyes
to see if there's somebody in there

wide digital almost sky
with the strength of an answer

almost a hope in how vast
and curious in the same place

the same troubled half-squint
faraway like a question

or tedious wish to be somewhere
like last night left over from something

forgotten and seen inside a book
looking up carried into a smile

i saw you with my same eyes
we were tired and old


in this dream dad
you're twenty years dead
and when i woke up
there's a knock at the door
and you're standing there with a tan
and over seven months i tell you were dead
when the door knocked
and i'm dreaming you standing somewhere from sun
with the woman i'm sleeping with under your arm
but it could have been anybody's house
when i leave and don't wake her
closer to you
before the house dissolves

In My Country

it's true
in the cemetery the softest grass to lie down on
is a woman
i have many times rolled on and across
lips of the angelic dead
but tonight
i drag my dark bones overlooking the arroyo
to drink your legs
there is no dreamy look of innocence
on her face turning stone
no moaning hollow of her breasts
i have come here to sleep the absolute sleep
of wings rising from your breath
a rootless wet green in the mouth at night


your hand is a shard of glass my face floats through
like a scar

Sadiiqii (Arabic) = My friend

created by