STONES

towns have a burial place where stones are gathered. there white limestone angels pace immobile with cut hair

arms raised above the coil of vine and serpent. blessed the long flesh sweetened soil cool rooted and fine grassed.

the boy alone unlooked on wears his head a precious vessel, a gold helmeted burden borne ritually on a staff of silver; breast nipples shining, navel hung aquiver on the belly's stair, the arched ribs fluted in two wings of air, one numbered odd above the swinging members somehow muted of the song the towers induce them. boys gravely offer their nipples, bare their arms

in alleys, under river trees, among

pine bushes. and lost in the blown tree noise like golden bucks outside the quiet farms they gather where streams are most darkly hung.

BIRDS FELL

ARTWORK

and

POETRY

by the late Sidney Bronstein

I took your hand your eyes opened birds fell

finding no air

into the meadow, there we lay

I over you under your hair

all noon

my arms twined

where burning birds fell.

in the days of sailors, in the war days, when they walked here, then I wooed warriors, and the heroes heard, filled the four years with night's news, my deaths with love's delays. such sweet streets, love lodes of my praise, are now none, all irenic of gold soldiers, bare of blue boys, followed by oldsters; only the plain people follow their ways.

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