Livio Farallo - Two Poems

anyone’s voice is never again

the horns of a ram are senseless,
bellowing horizons lost in weather
                   and buckets filled
                   with wind.
in iowa, all the rain is spilled
               off
table tops; all the water in toilets
                    tells the same story
and territories in canada
                           are afraid
of broken arms and borders
                                    unraveling
like poorly basted seams.

if you smile with me in
                                     a
                                     polaroid,
we
can punch the snowman
until he
             spits up summer;
until                    he begs
                            for a grass skirt
and unsutures wisdom from moonlight. then

adages crumble in madness –
                                                     your obstetrician flipping the baby;
                                                     pesticide inhaled like perfume;
                                                     an ocean smaller than the air above it.
the harvested organ you paid for never appears
and corpses are left staring like candles
that never
flicker.
but i can’t
         tell you a thing about stubbornness
since it
drips
in pools until they freeze. since the
                                               crocodile
has started its death roll; chugging,
                                              flying;
and you’ve only sniffed the cork
while
the
wine has hidden itself in shame.

if you take a swim
with me
in the melted sand, the glass
                                    we
find can never blow away;
the nightfall is just a fulcrum
better left unargued.
the bark of the dog across
the street is just the first shiver of rain.                                                  

---

columbuses

i won’t let you follow me
where locusts crack their eggs.
there are spirit powders squeezing
through the stitches and
ice not really cold enough to paralyze fruit.

wait until the backwaters splash you;
wait for my nodding head to steal a
word or two you should’ve spoken
and then the cacklings are the same:
every bonfire, every catacomb, every crumbling
of rust is a honking vee parked in a cloud. and you
can stalk like a predator though bacteria have
done the job and death had to pre-
cede the smile anyway.

                                           so i know you
can wait for me in wild hair
or sweaty palms. sitting
on a tall stool where
legs can only drip on the floor and the
dunce hat is a brackish sunday
worshipped in spain.
there are always rememberings to wait for:
islands gelatinous and buoyant as any ship.