Cassandra Stark
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A BUFFOON'S ATTEMPT The sky is a buffoon's attempt to conceal chance. All is barefooted, one girl ponders the woods. Which way shall she roam? Who knows, Chi sa? Anyway, my left hand catches moths. Circles. The blue words fell from the sky and nestled upon my breast. I told them stories until they slept peacefully. Meanwhile, the barren wilderness became a sieve, I fell out. The bottom went dry, crackling. A small stone, a smooth relic is now imbedded inside my mind. I walked the weeded path calling out silly names like "Balaco." No wonder the birds are crying. No wonder stars hurt in whispers and the four winds taught us to dance. So many nights gathered into one embryo. He grows up to paint his shack red, the door blood red with a blue doorknob. © 1995 Casandra Stark Mele
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