THE GRADIENTS BETWEEN A falling branch, bull moose or bear, the stray shot from a hunter’s gun— ex-urban friends consider threats like these unworrying. They amble on. Our city cousins gravely eye each other. Over busy streets, they scan for wrath and poison coughs, the latest revelations of deceit. Commuters there to here and back comment upon the two fixed scenes, but rarely on the curtains drawn— or open—on the gradients between.
THE STUDIES OF ART —1 His fellows endorse gob-stopping expressions —Alps needle sharp, Grand Canyon depressions— and most dream of profits, in status or porridge, while meticulous Art composes for storage. —2 The Emperor? Sure. But will Art shout: The Empress wears no clothes! Barely inclined, she’ll find Art’s moonstruck face wherever Her Nakedness goes.
ATMOSPHERIC Even the rain is hot, Even the rain, as if it took by tumult out of asphalt clouds some measure of the fusion searing endlessly beyond. A house fan merely stirs such heat, blends it with the waters of that river where we all shall bathe —oh, currents of forgetfulness— the future our next breath.
After military service, William Conelly took a master’s in literature from UC Santa Barbara. Unrelated work in research and composition followed before he returned to academia. A collection of his early verse is titled UNCONTESTED GROUND and a short children’s book WEST OF BOSTON. Retired from teaching as a dual citizen, Conelly resides with his wife in Warwick, England.
Grand Little Things 