[vc_row row_height_percent=”50″ override_padding=”yes” h_padding=”2″ top_padding=”3″ bottom_padding=”3″ back_image=”56863″ back_position=”center top” overlay_alpha=”0″ gutter_size=”3″ shift_y=”0″][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ position_vertical=”bottom” style=”dark” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ zoom_width=”0″ zoom_height=”0″ width=”1/1″][vc_custom_heading heading_semantic=”h1″ text_size=”fontsize-338686″ text_height=”fontheight-179065″ text_space=”fontspace-111509″ text_font=”font-762333″ text_weight=”700″ text_color=”color-xsdn” sub_reduced=”yes” subheading=”by John Calavitta”]2 Poems[/vc_custom_heading][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_empty_space empty_h=”2″][vc_column_text]Cypresses
For one day only
those who walk don’t have to think
that we were born here, not there,
which means there’s a chance
in a land without a meaning,
an answer in the frozen ground
like an unexpected comma.
A page is missing from the book
in the forest. Out of the question
each arrow strikes a bell which shuts a door—
thank you for seeing in the dark
what is wrongly called the distance;
what we ask for
when we cut our losses and proceed
as if we were protagonists, or lovers;
salmon headed upstream.
I remember the illusion of persons
acting younger than I am. We stand
convicted of the topical and transitory,
the sea deliberately gone.
Crates of Oranges
on the rulered page (of a Moghul garden)
the best word is water
but the first ocean was the best
between the horizon’s brackets
the main sentence waits
the world ahead was daylight
and no one dared get out
liars in the glass
argue that light will last
regardless of tenses and final clauses
the black bureau of history
is a maelstrom of loves and hates
and our shadows walk on stilts
at high altitudes
because my breath is gone
leaving stone blocks for goodbye
that painters find innocent[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ align_horizontal=”align_center” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ mobile_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ z_index=”0″ width=”1/1″][vc_empty_space][vc_separator sep_color=”color-184322″ el_width=”30%”][vc_empty_space][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column column_width_percent=”100″ align_horizontal=”align_right” overlay_alpha=”50″ gutter_size=”3″ medium_width=”0″ mobile_width=”0″ shift_x=”0″ shift_y=”0″ z_index=”0″ width=”1/3″][vc_single_image media=”57552″ media_width_percent=”100″][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][vc_column_text]John Calavitta studied poetry at George Mason, Naropa University, and the University of Washington. His work appears in Camas, The Monarch Review, and Mudlark, among others.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][vc_column width=”1/3″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
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