20150116

Naomi Buck Palagi


Planning: Chorale


Voice 1

small cents or elephants whispering through the dog days of night,

pigeons,

high on the precipices of possibility
and wonder, we

we


we ostracize humble peotone of the
block printer in aster or phlox.



if this meant to me






forgetting



forgetting







elephant





forgetting


homing.





shielded by daylight, wielding
pointilism, points





for not more than this.



to that tune, for more than a mile,
a smile, rest





I do not care for you, and you may climb






into the brook, rocks




falls no more






carrying the white, and worm-ridden pet.



paints.





herself, or me, her sister





and all I can consider is the madonna





that slipped from my grasp and the one



ostriched, we are, for remembering these.





took on water





to the source



this

was the Beginning.


Voice 2








wimbledon

weatherbe




and if this meant to me



if this meant to me the beginning
not frost, not cold, not even health but










The pigeons fly circles over you, it is ending.

Wishing doesn't make it so and



pigeon




or pigeon for not

homing.



gashes, we have all shied



points earned like the ostrich in the sand, the





dancing



as if climbing from the canyon, rest





as you wish.


streams burble



mossed as with snake,



falls no more.

no horse tongue on the whiskey barrel, no

metal trucks



an elephant says not all of us are sisters, she grasps the paint brush, she



she paints me, her sister, or





here we are, homing, again

our heads in the sand



crafted by two of our hands at the brook,

the snake



she jumped.





in the dog days of night we



mineraled from the underground, found

followed



so steep it was reversed and this



was the Beginning.


Voice 3





















Beginning.
I have Beginning and parcels last til we elephant, not



not wishing, not


I stay, elephanted.









elephant ostracized for not




homing.

we have all shied from the mare with high strung







ostrich, gone to pasture. Fortunes lost



dancing





as if climbing from the canyon, as if



as you wish.








or clay. The water





metal trucks









she paints herself, she grasps the paintbrush, she paints





our heads in the sand



crafted by two of our hands at the brook,





she jumped.







took on water





to the source, the land





was the Beginning.




Naomi Buck Palagi has work published in journals such as Spoon River Review, Otoliths, Moria, Eleven Eleven, Blue Fifth Review and Requited. Additionally, she has two chapbooks, Silver Roof Tantrum (dancing girl press, 2010), and Darkness in the Tent (Dusie Kollectiv 5, 2011).
 
 
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