ISSUE II
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10 SIENNA SOLSTICE<br />
The Last<br />
September Equinox<br />
Giorgio De Chirico, The Song of Love,<br />
1914. Oil on canvas.<br />
I lean in adobe<br />
archways that cast<br />
vaulted shadows a / cross the pavement,<br />
where you rest your marble<br />
coiffure on humid clay.<br />
unfurling<br />
raucous curls<br />
waving against / the thick sky dripping.<br />
I chisel away<br />
at your pupils / expanding<br />
grey iris eclipsed<br />
with an empty / new moon I need<br />
to fill with silver<br />
until eyelids<br />
sink<br />
lashes brushing wispy clouds<br />
off the horizon<br />
of your cheeks.<br />
My tongue traces your broken lobe<br />
with whispers<br />
Can a person be<br />
an equinox?<br />
Elliott Voorhees<br />
The setting sun spills into<br />
your contours / crisp,<br />
luminous geometry.<br />
Orange cheekbones and crimson lips<br />
relaxing into the dying<br />
afternoon / purpling the desert sky / my dark gaze<br />
on the edge of the world<br />
there’s a runaway train<br />
singing / you to sleep.
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