Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Two poems by Robert Scotellaro


Your silence
is a season
where the
steam irons
are in bloom
in small pots
along the
when you
spit on them.

Where a sun
a crack in
the clouds
so small
it can be
in karats.


The Next War

It is always the same: the rude symmetry
of a man split in half by lightening,
in equal parts, rolling down either side
of a hill,

the bad dreams that follow, turned
inside-out like gaudy coats.

The angels glutting on cumulous clouds
to wash down the sorrow.

The paperweight: a glass shark, shattering
against the hardwood floor from some
clumsy general's desk.

And the night outside, so dense, it can only
be read in Braille.

Author bio:

Robert Scotellaro's poetry and short fiction have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. He is the author of four chapbooks of poetry. His most recent collection is Rhapsody of Fallen Objects (Flutter Press 2010). A new chapbook of poems, The Night Sings A Cappella, is forthcoming by Big Table Press in spring 2011. He is the recipient of Zone 3's Rainmaker Award in Poetry. He currently lives in San Francisco with his wife and daughter.

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