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William B. Hunt

Four poems, five minimalist poems

The Wedding of Candles

Blue stars pour through the stained-glass windows.
Between the gentle shepherd and a lamb
In one window
A star walks to your veil.
The walk of love is brave for those
Afraid we were spun
From the arms of an undying,
Unliveable sun. At night
My dark heart pounds to think of forever,
The river of light
We promise your father.
When you walk the beautiful way of the candles
Perfect leaves form in the air
Small as hands
Made of the candlelight.
The fire I love moves in each vein. I know
The forever I sing will not be long
In the branches of your flame-gold tree.

Harvest Birthday

The reason for this poem is to explain
some curiosities of the sun for a boy's first birthday.
Your cutting teeth are the sun. Either of your knees
and both of them together are the sun.
The sun is headbones, fishers in the head,
and your mother is the sun. The snow, the stars
are from one atom. Your father is an edge of drifting
snow by the forest. The branches wear jackets of ice
in the woods. When you move through,
the ice becomes water. Drops fall,
when they are ready, like heavy fruit,
cascading the darker air with seeds of light.
And the harvest
Is a jubilee of rivulets
In the sun melting into the sun.

Sibyl Transient

When I notice the interminable, efficient
meshing of the gears of things,
the way aircraft arrive safely
more often than you might expect them to,
the way elaborate contrivances like refrigerators
turn themselves on and off regularly for years
without giving anyone much trouble,
it occurs to me that entire masses of people
are painlessly relocating themselves at any given second,
and that now, for instance,
someone is sitting next to Sibyl on a train,
or waiting in a station,
expecting nothing but the impersonal, typical situation
of being in transit with a stranger,
and sitting quietly, doing nothing, preparing to make small talk,
they are enjoying the last moment
ever to be remembered as familiar
or associated with any previous experiences.

There Are Friendships That End

There are friendships that end
Like the slamming of a keyboard cover on the hands.
Telephone friendships
Tied by thin wires.
Competition friendships (you hope he fails,
He hopes you die.) Partnerships exist
Among peaceful citizens which are
A lobbing back and forth of live grenades -
Yet on the news just now
I saw two soldiers kill a man
And walk off arm-in-arm.

Minimalist Poems

Pure Beauty

There are two red french horns playing inside the word "cherry."


Revolver bell terrible.

In Memory of My Father

You hand out the bells in heaven when ancient cabinets have been unlocked.


Square fire.


The poets have the land of their fingernails and nerves.

You may also read William B. Hunt's text pieces "The Presentations" at "ekpages :: urban art"!

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