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Haiku Free Verse Prosies
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For E., whose last name don't know yet
The artists live in the south. There is a highway
running between them and the river.
Under a blue onion dome,
in a building made for making guns,
they paint and sculpt and write.
The day after I met you, I woke
with the sun full on my face.
Morning had become brighter — one whole hour.
All day Monday, I sat with my back to the sun.
Now, with night's blanket over me,
my eyes have been opened.
I wish I could send to you
the surprise of the skyline rising
over this expanse of green in the dark,
those glittering castles, this flat, empty space
and me driving through it.
I wish I could send to you
the bright blue sky of my body
cut loose from its moorings
not the empty snake skin,
or even the snake, but the concept,
the image, the buzzing within me
that has no words
Cut loose from my moorings,
I drifted down to the water's edge.
I wanted to see the lights of the city
rising above the water. But police
have cordoned off the park
to keep men from kissing each other in the dark.
In these empty streets, the dark, soft air
of autumn is palpable,
a living thing, a cushion,
drops of water caught suspended
in the rays of streetlamps.
I point my car north.
From Charter Oak I glide down Main,
light from the building swathing the street.
I call each building by name,
thinking my city, thinking my home.
But you won't see it this way.
Frances Donovan
November 1998
July 2003
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