Paul Summers Young

  The guitar starts crying early morning, broken glass; the guitar starts crying, and there’s no hushing her, she won’t simmer down; on and on, she cries like the running waters, the way the wind cries when it snows; she won’t simmer down, crying over far off things: the hot southern sand pleading for white camellias, an arrow with no mark, an afternoon and no tomorrow, the first bird on the branch to die; O guitar! wounded heart with five swords fixed. FGL (1931) PSY (Feb. 2025)

  The field of olives opens and closes like a fan. Above the grove the sky is sunk the rain is dark the stars are cold.  A trembling in the rushes and darkness falls on the riverbank. A ripple through the grey air.  Olive trees laden with screams. A flock  of captive birds move their long, long tails in the shadows.  FGL (1931) PSY (Feb. 2025)