Mad
in B Minor
                             
There in the field the glass shield
resonates to the church organ pumped
over malfunctioning speakers,
the reverb silencing the landscape plenty.
                            
Words imply thought like notes describe
that sepulchral tune. Point to the star
on your forehead and talk about your
transition to music from rhetoric.
                            
Hands over eyes
cover an interior expanse more
present than the laughing stream
and the birds driving the sky around.
                            
A man flying a crimson kite
against the chalked blue resents 
the notion of time passing and wishes
another hypothesis rose to explain.
                            
He runs with music in his mind,
deep black clefs and sharps and flats
but we can't see his face and he can't
see us hiding in between his notes.
                            
                            
                            
                            
                            Earring
                             
Listen listen listen I can't
keep running with you
at this speed I lose sight
of what follows and what
I follow comes too soon.
                            
Tell me you know
                            
Tell me you know where
to go on a day when
we are transparent
and nothing we wear
makes a difference.
                            
Is it because
                            
Yeah, pretty much.
The poetry comes from
looking at the table
through squinted eyes
your hand holding a feather.
                            
Call the waiter over
                            
Or send him a note
telling him how pretty
he looks in twilight
with the cheekbones
and the high tops.
                            
This about mortality
                            
Or not, or suit yourself
in the way that your
fathers thought profitable
and righteously
during your lifetime.
                            
                            
                            
                            
                            Phaeton
                             
The buggy haters press on despite
their familiar and regrettable weaknesses.
We stood at the edge of the woods wondering
what it would take to be fine inside
the dark hollows. But only a down would
raise its head and speak in tongues.
                            
Who can make it say that
there is something inside
our minds when we collide
nothing will do it today
I play with the sound of
your name on my breath
it never ends there it
makes its way inside 
inside again when we 
touch eyes and the same
thing happens that
happened when we
were more beside ourselves.
                            
 Salvatore Difalco
                            is a Sicilian Canadian poet and author living in Toronto. He has
                            published five small-press books, including The Mountie At Niagara Falls (Anvil
                            Press), an illustrated collection of microfiction.
 
                        
                        