Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Three

Radames Ortiz

August Trance

— for n We settle into our private picnic Joggers circle the field And basset hounds drag their Tongues, lapping ants Into their mouths We lay our heads on crushed grass Witness the evening coming on The clouds spinning into chaos Like storms, like cities The feel of slow rotation of earth Silent but loving In the mist of weeping willows And branches twisted into headaches The clay of our brows accept all forms Bay windows and arched doorways Cicadas and stucco rooftops shimmering Outstretched in this strange calm How utterly haunting and doomed we feel But always, without fail, together Amongst heat playing on pebbles You and I — a dollhouse saga In the pearly light of an afternoon We hardly touch but know our bodies' desire for war And we know we found it This beautiful gravity Moving slowly by us And through us, As if we were ruins, As if we were ghosts