Postcard from the Volcano

after Wallace Stevens

When least we knew our house as breathing will—
the literate part will say gutted. And guess at, as
autumn foxes left what cries

grapes in quick frost, the mansion's
budded left. Our will of bones made with what left look.
Children in sharp white

shuttered beyond speech became our gate to a still
dirty, storming world; it will by their still-felt despair
speak the tatter.

Picking up for these, we out above what is
know aureoles there—once spirit-smeared—blank.
On clouds we never had spring, never gold.
And what of it?

We children of, we look as if and much is left:
our bones, the hill that saw; the windy were of things;
peaked smell, long weaving blow; the said air
a being and opulent in he that with these, lived.

Know what house that mansion of sky.
That mansion that behind the sun, a sharper more,
seems of shadows.

Kilby Smith-McGregor is in general agreement.

Published On: September 25, 2015
Permanent Location:

Volume 8, Issue 3
September 25, 2015

Via Toronto

an Introduction

Paul Vermeersch

Penguin Suicide

Shazia Hafiz Ramji

beached poem

Shazia Hafiz Ramji

watched by the drone

Dani Couture

They Will Take My Island

Johanna Skibsrud

Maestro Bartolome Reconsiders his "Creation of Eve"

Johanna Skibsrud

Lacking the Wind's Higher Reasoning

Canisia Lubrin

Postcard from the volcano

Kilby Smith-McGregor

Taking off your glasses

Kilby Smith-McGregor

Feb 12, 2001 - Present

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7


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