Member Poem

Twitching on this damp bench I see shivering before me:

- Swirling eddies, marbled metaphors onto which I project and obscure the real roots of my being here, evading, avoiding, dislocating the self-induced self-disgust awaiting me in the place I have dishonestly called home for several years now, though noplace else has taken pride of place from my old place

- Two turtles basking on a half-submerged log, one large and one small, probably different species, but perhaps one adult and one juvenile, and is it projecting so terribly if I admit to feeling guilt and sorrow that I cannot comfortably enjoy -- neither of use would comfortably enjoy a spa day -- but relaxing with my own mother?

- The big boy of the slow river, the carp open-mouthed, accepting, consuming whatever he encounters, absorbing, encapsulating, he would never shyly hide himself, he would never lie and never avoid the consequences of his actions but would meet death with an open mouth, a friendly twitch of the whiskers and if his unblinking eyes could close he would wink his knowing acknowledgement of the unknowable

My summer wine is really made from all these things.