by Nick Squadere

There is a strange / quiet —
l  o  n  e  l  i  n  e  s  s   :

          not a single person home
          at my cousin’s house
                                                          on Hunter St.

                 The young pup whimpering in his kennel by the door,                   a glass of water I’ve poured myself           putting a ring
                             in the coffee table.

No sun really to cast light      tho,
                                   a white glow
                                   does
                                   enter the room from the bay window

           Covers [without shadow] the wrinkled walls.
           Frost,   now turning the grass a mint green

reveals footsteps
c
           r
                      o
                                 s
                                            s
                                                       i
                                                                  n
                                                                             g

                                                         the yard and   into the street.

Their refrigerator hums from the kitchen.   My ears ring . . .

by Nick Squadere

But what could be more brilliant than
                        the index finger
                                    behind your paintbrush ?

I’ve been drinking and smoking all night,
                       examining how the stars illuminate
                                               pockets           of space

                                               An organic geometry
                                                       capturing features of a goddess
                                    in the sky

something like Picasso’s
“Woman at a Window”

                                                       Orpheus blinding you
                                                       with hands like feathers
                                                                     across your face.

by Nick Squadere

SHINKICHI TAKAHASHI    said

that rivers & mountains exist

           within a single
                       tuberous
                                   crop

                                              I drift in the cool / dark / waters
                                                                      of my Hudson

                                              underneath
                                              seeds of light

Orion             drawing his bow
                                              causes

catfish to        rise
at my fingertips

                                  and I take them home

                                  in the summer

                                  to my daughter picking raspberries

Where I fry them up with butter       and some potatoes.

by Donald Crane

As I was trimming around
     my rose bushes, I glanced
     over the hedge

And saw my neighbor’s wife
     on her chaise longue beside
     the pool slip down the straps
     of her halter and roll over
     under the sun.

I shrank back, for the tiger
     had appeared at the edge
     of the forest.