Mount Ne

     I sit in an ampitheatre and listen to you
     Hearing you clearly through an acoustic trick
     You are standing fifty feet away and murmuring
     I’d rather not hear it because you are drunk and
     saying we should go our separate ways
     drunk is honest the old saying saws at my
     psychic teeth and sets me on edge the edge
     of my crumbling concrete seat this old
     circular Greek-looking ampitheatre in
     Mont Ne where we have come to be
     dismayed or amazed or maybe razed like
     a building served its use its time no longer
     wanted wasting space and facing
     demolition. Is that us? We were built in
     frenzy and much applause and cornerstoned
     with a time capsule that is past its
     due date? Is that it? Did just time run out?
     Where is timelessness? Did theories
     change? Where have I been in the mean
     time, the golden mean of the ideal? WTF?
     Mont Ne has a history, like us, of failure.
     It was built with hope and crazy polarity
     and dreams. And now the ruins offer
     some solace, some mystery still, can’t we
     make do with that you know like the
     Aztec Pyramids? This place had splendor
     once now splintered by time HEY! I yell
     to hear the echo and a crane rises slowly
     like a C-130 overloaded, from the water
     they sank Mont Ne in like Atlantis or Mu
     obliterating the canals and tracks and
     ruins of the great lodge the dreams of
     that man not quite covered by time and
     flood and rerouted rivers. Maybe my
     dreams will rise like a heavier than air
     crane over the fingers of dead trees.


Stork Still Crane

     Ninety-five in the shade
     The crane stands stork still
     no breeze ripples her mirror
     of deadly cyan and clouds
     I whistle the dogs back softly
     no need to force her up to
     shift and seek another pond,
     struggle and scuffle herself
     into the air lift that density
     against gravity until her
     glide and symmetry take
     my breath and she floats
     over the ridge and lights like
     breath itself at first light as
     souls alight and disappear
     with few traces we squint to
     see I retrace steps she turns
     her swordbill just a bit and
     scythes downward into the
     simmer breaking glass and
     water, a panfish captured
     gone in a flash and she is
     still again eggs hidden and
     I back away slowly turn to
     see my dogs waiting,
     honoring my point
     my stealth, my bated
     circumspection my
     very breath held
     like smoke.


Guinotte Wise fixed his soffits with money from his short story collection Night Train, Cold Beer (Pecan Grove Press, 2013). His other books are available at Amazon and B&N. His stories, essays and poems have appeared in numerous literary reviews including Atticus, the MacGuffin, Shotgun Honey, and Best New Writers Anthology 2015. He lives in Resume Speed, Kansas; his wife has an honest job in the city, and drives 100 miles a day to keep it.
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