Dawn in Pennsylvania, 1948
The earth’s first viscera
dismembers into sky,
as clouds shred into blue-purple shrouds,
and buildings yawn
from the night, borne by revulsion
of light from their orifices.
Grey bridges, grey walls, grey factories:
the streets are senseless,
Vernaculars of stone, the store windows
gape, the mute chant of churches
spire the horizon.
What weather comes, mortar
will answer with brick.
As light spills
shadows from hydrants, poles,
pigeons clock squares and parks,
sparrows break from balled fists
Wings of night air
evaporate. Listen: a few
shouts, warble of distant
horns. Even here, time opens
like a flower.
Originally from New York City, Robert Bharda has resided in the Northwest U.S. where for the last 35 years he has specialized in vintage photographica as a profession, everything from salt prints to polaroids. His illustrations/artwork have appeared in numerous publications, both in the U.S. and abroad. Also a writer, his poetry, fiction and critical reviews have been published in The North American Review, Northwest Review, Shenandoah, Quarterly West, Willow Springs, ACM, Cutbank, Fine Madness, Kansas Quarterly, Yellow Silk, Poets On, Conclave and many others, including anthologies.
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