Carol Frost


Apiary II (Orphean)


She comes around the corner with a look of never

having tasted honey salt bread: knowing no one:

her walking inconclusive—briefest glimmer

like a sweet array of plucked lute notes

then disappearance.

Would that you could once again tense to her tensing

you aren’t my natural daughter

so that your inmost self was with her

and she felt herself somewhere: if only in this dark hallway:

paper orange blossoms: mazily repeated:

As if passed on by roads and rivers or having been

looked at over a betraying shoulder:: She cannot stay.

© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review