[诗歌]   Blue

alvinwoolf

by Curtis Bauer

Do not look for ink, a wild iris, book
jacket or fish, but the space between
button holes on a worn shirt,

the waitress, her fingers touching
your fingers, her veins,
her dress, your eyes, the plate.

Think of the words you recited, their order
on that crisp morning they rose
like flame burning dry leaves; they waited

like breath hanging in front of your closed mouth
the morning of the first frost, the morning
your boots shattered the grass, you breathed

a cloud that lingered, expanded, faded.
Think of it as a kettle’s voice. Think of it
as the window crack sealed with tape.

alvinwoolf

Curtis Bauer

Curtis Bauer is the author of the poetry collection Fence Line, which won the 2003 John Ciardi Poetry Prize. A founding member of the poetry collective, 7 Carmine, and the publisher of Q Ave Press chapbooks, Bauer’s poetry, nonfiction and translations have appeared in Barrow Street, The Iowa Review, The North American Review, Rivendell, Runes, and numerous other journals. After living for several years in Mexico, Spain and Iowa, he recently moved to Texas, where he is an instructor of creative writing at Texas Tech University.

alvinwoolf

Curtis Bauer's email is:cwbauer70@yahoo.com