John Martone
                                             kneeling                                              in my onion patch                                              I study                                              the horizon                                              when I kneel                                              to dig onions                                              basil reaches                                              to my shoulders                                              my right hand —                                              a trowel                                              my left hand —                                              an onion                                              two dirty hands                                              his knees                                              are onions                                              and his bald pate                                              an onion                                              onion skin                                              thin as one                                              who’s eighty                                              already                                              the                                              etymon                                              of                                              onion’s                                              one                                              the perfect onions                                              filling my basket                                              are not perfect spheres

memory's fabric

a fabric
                                             clouds                                              and villages                                              villages                                              and clouds                                              clam rakes on long                                              island back when                                              seagulls and                                              pebbled shore                                              a single car                                              in the lot                                              patch                                              something torn                                              from memory’s                                              fabric                                              the taste                                              of those stones                                              where we                                              grew up                                              a true path                                              sand tracked                                              into and through                                              the house                                              a beachcomber                                              outfits his house                                              in the rain                                              I keep                                              a clean house                                              for invisible                                              guests
John Martone was born in Mineola NY. Most recently he has published Giovanni Pascoli: O Little One and Selected Poems (from Laertes Books) and a collection of short poems in Italian, In quel tempo available in print from him or online at https://www.scribd.com/document/509503341/In-quel-tempo
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