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La Piccioletta Barca - Issue 19
Come April & Silk

Come April & Silk

Come April

If not for the hair
caught in the corner
where the broom
cannot reach,
I would never know
that you were here.

And if not for the corner
where the broom
cannot reach –
if not for the moulding
that pinned it –
if not for the wall
and the ceiling’s crease –
if not for the rafters
and shingles,
there we would be no hair.

And if not for the hair,
there would be no fingers,
no care to tie a single knot,
that last delicate act of binding,
carried to the window,

And if not for the window,
if not for the wind or
the spruce entangled,
if not for the wake –

No robin’s nest or blue eggs
come April.


Perhaps it is patience,
or slow digest
that lures me to a web.

Perhaps it is stillness
and those eight black eyes
of a widow’s watch.

For nothing runs in the hourglass,
no sand, no blood –
all things are stilled.

As she waits for eons,
we have only days,
between a love and a winding,

And as each swept thread
clings to the straw,
we cannot unweave

What long before our eyes
had warmed a heartbreak –
cannot dispel the grief that binds us,

One long strand, each to another,
like silk that holds all rain
at once in a tear, or a dewdrop.

Devon Brock is an aged punk who split the city for the sticks and discovered that all things huge can be found in a greasy cardboard box under the passenger seat of a junk pickup truck.

The Sick Child and Silent the Sun Falls

The Sick Child and Silent the Sun Falls

The Sick Child


You didn’t see her – behind the door,
but your mother bowed her head
and wept when you left, or

Her white knuckles,
slim clasped when fever took you
down in cold rattled sweats,

as she tamped your forehead
with the one soft rag left in the cupboard –
brought water to your lips.

You didn’t see her –
but she held you, new and wet,
back, before your eyes.

And you never saw late,
when your first love died,
and she held you brief,
she slipped into her room
and cried.

And when you walked away,
on that first day yours,
when the door soft shut,
you mother bowed her head and wept,
for the sick child she once knew when,
is still fevered, still shaking, still blind.


Silent the Sun Falls


Silent where they fell,
spent ash, dog hair, coffee grounds.
Silent as they were when new to use –
for buzz, for warmth, for wake, now
bits of grit to grind down slippers
and vanquished for a pleasure.

Silent where they fell,
old debts dismembered,
chunks of glass that could perhaps
be re-assembled as candy dishes
or ashtrays – maybe porches,
where chew jaws took summer
and low orange breeze.

And the sun fell where it falls,
like threadbare throws, beaters
and rugs, old dogs
chained to trees,
and the red rust Fords
thumped down by the woodpile,
scavenged for parts – silent,
like the giddy knowledge of children,
racing in the torn sprung seats.

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