Almanac

American Poetry Review, The, Jan/Feb 2001 by Martin, Carl

Roses and manure are indigenous:

On our court scales, "just" indicators of seasons

And on occasion, mushy and fertile. Yes, it's true,

Snake oil's the tonic that echoes this frequency of the sun.

Horse & wagon, stamped cancellations, the far astronauts:

All neighborhood ghosts address themselves to the facts.

Aton, the Sun God, strokes the sky with strata of fire.

Some suggest Rostropovich or Tolstoy calm his burning hand.

His dark night I'm sure was painted orange last night,

But the sky's mainly "cobalt blue." Some covet oranges & blues.

I covet the snake that abides in the hollow. Beautiful,

Her kisses: Sequins from all the starved trees.

At the state capitol, crops and the raven preside:

There's a statue of Ceres, raven perched on her shoulder.

Hades, reigning now and again, is casual as hell,

Sculpts odd animals who turn, mostly, into bumpkins & beer.