As Mourning Doves Persist

Rising from the damp ditch of short sleep acequia lady picks up her traveling mandolin to accompany the boom box  bass on wheels  passing on the wet street. Bus comes by. Push brakes hiss at the rigid stop sign corner. Wistful 'o' in the mouth of the bronze mother in the artist's yard floats as if a piano in her esophagus is escaping. Accordion whistles through car windows. Down the block, one weary dishwasher steps out for a smoke. Cheap spoons a-jangle in his big, damp pockets... Excerpted from  The Shape of Caught Water available from Red Mountain Press or directly from the author (505.670.4327) http://redmountainpress.us/

                                 Sight of sound in the palm of the ear turning to the true face of the One in the room. With you, we are all toddling toward the sphere of the wave in our magnificent spin. Tuning the center of sound. Palms down. Pressing against the dervish    in the sanctuary                                   alcove,  the sight  of the music you have made  with  your heart in your ear. Stilling the wave. The spiral of sound traveling more slowly now as you center magnificently. Walking toward the two halves conjoined. Strumming  prayer.