The Receiver

Your Pacific urges,
crack through old technology
marine-drenched cables
and the international telephonic corridors
of epic, sonic, optic rush and pause
conducting and over-lapping,
delaying the sound of rain
in the background
where you live
slowing the drops to a sixth of a second.

And my Atlantic urges,
to say a not yet obsolete
brief prayer or
other kind of
organic weather balloon
to throw another skipping stone
back through that
creacking hallway of sequences
no longer affected by zone or country

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poem by Eli Spivakovsky
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What if a hummingbird could emerge from a cocoon?

What if a hummingbird could emerge from a cocoon
fully formed
and clingling
to a vanilla plant
its wet body slowly opening
in the heat of the flower garden?

And has anyone noticed
that birds as they depart
their flapping sounds
almost like a paper bag being opened?

The hummingbird clearly, though,
sounds like a hum
whose tiny wings
pressed together at 25 beats per second
is blessed by being the only bird to be able to fly backwards
and one that could be
the smallest fan in the world

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poem by Eli Spivakovsky
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Andalusian

My Andalusian
Spanish Horse Boy
That Europe wants cast from places too wet and damp
that actual humans can't inhabit
I can teach you how to be more human
But your grass grains kept my Elders alive
And they covered for you when they ran into the night with their diamonds.

Your eyes are such dark pearls
Your mouth is as dark pink as a berry-freshly picked
Your face is gold shone blown from the air.

My Andalusian
Horse Spanish Boy
My Pygmalion ways
would cause catastrophe: for you are pure art.
Yes, that I would live in your treehouses
Yes, that I would play guitar with one string
And learn all your dances
and leave my best dresses behind.

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poem by Eli Spivakovsky
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