by James Sutherland-Smith

I’ll be up and about my business
at a loose end in New York or San Francisco
one early morning seeking nothing less
than the perfect croissant and cappuccino
with not too much froth or cinnamon.

Behind me the police will be calling crews
to start clearing up the wreckage made
by the hero after he’s honoured dues
to a murdered wife, for whom vengeance paid
in dramatic full.  For him, wounds tended,

a shower, a back rub at the very least,
a croissant that melts upon the tongue,
a cappuccino on which a dust
of chocolate has been sprinkled by the young
blonde who defied her boss, are only just.

In the meantime I’ll be finding the right café
and I’ll start reading, at the back of my mind
the thought of a second croissant and a day
removed from the shouts of the experts who can’t find
what the hero told them is in the rubble.

Little do any of them know that it is I
who have what they’re sifting the damage for.
Engrossed, I read on and with only a slightly
greasy finger do I turn page after
page until I reach the set of codes

which might plunge the world into catastrophe.
But I’ll ignore them and read on and on.
“The Rise and Fall of the Tang Dynasty”
is so compelling and, besides, a decision
must be made about that second croissant.

by Raquel Balboni

Indulgence : what is wrong with you
What is right in the tip of the eagle sword
Right in the belly of the ember of desire
When will i get to see you again
Call your name in the shiver light
A deformed face peering at me
In the mirror in the woods when i ran through
Out from the arms of the open wide scene
The spider dropped right over my eyebrow
The scent of winded wombs bombing through
The shape of you and your dreams
Have not spoken of that in ages
This is how i speak in hieroglyphic torture
Even to my brain that can’t make sense of it
Don’t know how to move from here except drill down to the bones
Of soul the dripping hostility of continuing on
The time to catch myself
Take you to the ceremony
Leave your things at home
Where the fire starts
Turnover the last meal
A small cup of black coffee
A trait of who knows best the blood shed
Under the car wheels during time spent
Understanding bottomless harmony
Sighing with the wind

by Raquel Balboni

i thought to cook her on medium
and wait for her to strengthen
even though she had already lost her shell

all i wanted was to see her up close
to see the way her arms blended with her neck
the sweet creamy skin, the smooth organ so there and soft
although it seemed my eyes played tricks on me when i looked at all

never will i be allowed to follow her into the secret woods
like a magic trick you ask how but never want to know
the mess in realizing nothing is as special as it may seem
in the blissful dank smell of moving soil
peace is left to be

by Raquel Balboni

In trying to negotiate the mind and relate him to space,
the circle earth and the other ones, the line will not continue
on, the one i want to draw tonight into the dirt on the ground,
but it breeds into a graph

Quickly — come see the little trees getting chopped down
where did you go in your cowboy jeans, you must have gone
thought i to be the one to flee, but we were both spinning in fate
unusually wired together with the calico horses in the wide
open space they open their mouths to speak and an apple flies in
sugar cubes too, and a house from heaven