William Allegrezza







from under the rain tarp we watch a dark sky and the rain. 
the magnolias don't seem to notice the cording nor us,
and something about being miles away from anyone
in the lone darkness of an approaching thunderstorm at night
brings us closer to one another.


highway  ball-bearings covered    with grease
summer afternoon heat       and        the sound     of forklifts
    and mowers laughing   water draining    slowly         into
drain-holes  in the     truck yard
and one  old woman   warning us like a sibyl   against
the sun


darkly visionary
     exploding images of airport novels
in dingy hotels all in black
      and praying for the goddess' words
     as desire pushes you
into being alone
     with an image of buddha in the buck
     and the virgin in thousands over a toilet of red hearts


in the haze light of pines
memory and sanity shuffle
through the cold eyelids of the dead vine
one half of each folds into nothingness

thunderstorms rage
and a polite I cannot believe
the smile of reeds on a river's bank
in the midst of autumn


and the quiet tired
feel of depression
as if the fuse
will blow but can't

in the space of tension
the mind falters and
lapses into the desire
to escape into
the mountain haven
of covered horizons
with fog lines and
fir fields


the sound
that comes through
years of memories
tells of summer and spring nights
in cramped spaces
with bug infested porches
in a city near the coast
where the brown water
kept us alive
and sirens sang us to sleep


following the nothing of vision
into the valley fir
with low lights and the ice of the mountain road
as trucks blow puddles into dream storms

under the cathedral alley
I believe that even death is not enough

the steep clefts open
to beyond vistas of sea
the pacific destructive in the winter wind