Steve Gilmartin & Montale
Evening BellsOne small lamb is calculated,
its skin and a lemon, brilliant
as caution’s blood-roses,
and they speak of its tininess.
Success is in the rivers of the hand.
His boat, her night, swelling
in revolutions, twisting like string.
An incident and everything sleeps.
Quickly one is in the era of trees.
Form dies, spires of vapor
rising like breath on the coastline
where nothing is tended, no deep daughter
to think of God descending
the earth smoke-bathed
sky and infants rattling
and alive in one’s pocket, three sounds
me, you, the lemon. . .