Poetry of Love, Resistance, & Solidarity

The silo squats in kindling grass,

kneeling like a giant monk under a

bliss so vast that kingfishers welter

in the equivocal wind. His concrete

thighs bulging arc & secretly grunt up

around buttock & the leaning back as

ballast. At night they appear in

hordes, a streaming silent echo marking

under the belly of sleeping ecstasy

like living tattoos. They fall in white

crescendos, commas, ellipses, the pubic

curls of questions & drop like periods

into it, into him- their stories are

the tangling currents of a turbulent

confluence, an orgy of silver

sufferings: basil, roses, chocolate.

The man comes down from the house in

sleep and stands at the iron opening.

Chanting on a swift tide, a tempest

whisper told far at sea. The figures

rise wet to face him speak, and slide

from the vessel to bound across the

parched plain as creatures once did

here before fences and plumbing. They

go and come as heavenly bodies whorl

until the man returns to his bed. It is

July. The dry farmers have begun

plowing in lost corn. The silo owns a

spigot known to the hand of those who

fraternize with the bones of stars.

~ Peter Wright

Peter Wright tends his fire on fifteen acres in Jefferson County, Kansas. He divides his time between studying the languages of the cloud shaped whales that migrate above and the grass clad people in the surrounding sea.

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Comments on: "Silo by Peter Wright" (2)

  1. Anonymous said:

    Now that is lovely

  2. Wonderful work. Thank you.

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