Quinton Duval
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Late Summer
The subtle: how long the sun
bakes the west side of the house,
glaring inches a day, then losing
inches a day to shade. Shadows
flicker and breathe, elongate
to darker and darker closets of green.
How the tomatoes take on their color
and the chilis, picked green, turn
to red in the cool inside, at leisure.
I am sixty and changing too,
my dreams filled with sea-
water and flickering fires on some shore.
Remember summer in Oregon, how
fires opened like flowers down
the evening beaches. Sparks rose
into starry darkness. Now,
we never quite see the stars
in their true constellations clearly.
Conundrums abound. How the cat’s
summer
claw turns round into ram’s horn, whorl
the curve’s instinct allows. Horn worm
ticks
on his green leaf, little chewing clock.
All things own the map to come home, to
change and sting – the subtle: as we are
unmoored, we are fastened
to the changing, growing light,
bidden to follow it through into ever-
lengthening shadow, the coming fall.
Short Subject: Stranger
Open with the young vagabond
coming towards us, a black dot
that gradually forms arms, legs,
a head, then features and colors
emerge, as if distance is fog and
closer is clear air. We can read
his face: he comes from over there,
where the devil is in the driver’s seat.
He doesn’t know that “over there”
is everywhere, that horror
moves faster than any imagination.
He carries a bundle into which
he has tied his book, his razor,
a picture of his family eating
outside together under a plane tree.
That is the dash of nostalgia.
Also, he carries a small dog with
eyes like carved coal. Tucked
under his jacket, this dog represents
hope, but we don’t know
what happens next, only
that it will be sad, and the hero
is the hero because of it. The author,
for his part, feels odd, calls
for music to end by, black birds
scribbled on the horizon.
The last scene has the dog
drinking from the ditch by the road
as our hero smokes and waits
for him to finish.
Reach For It
Reach for it, the fallen star
burning a hole in the carpet,
the dime the fat man can’t
quite pick up, the heart
that just won’t give in
to your reaching finger.
Try to remember her lips,
as if they were everything,
her hips and breasts,
that natural way she stood
naked and talked to you
as she felt the water warming.
The bath, the lowering,
the rising out of soapy foam
and water falling down her curves.
You’re the one with the stories.
You can see the coal tracing
an ever-larger ring in the rug,
the spilled bourbon soaking into
your pants, the dime shining up
at you, knowing you can’t make it
live in your pocket at your command.
The subtle: how long the sun
bakes the west side of the house,
glaring inches a day, then losing
inches a day to shade. Shadows
flicker and breathe, elongate
to darker and darker closets of green.
How the tomatoes take on their color
and the chilis, picked green, turn
to red in the cool inside, at leisure.
I am sixty and changing too,
my dreams filled with sea-
water and flickering fires on some shore.
Remember summer in Oregon, how
fires opened like flowers down
the evening beaches. Sparks rose
into starry darkness. Now,
we never quite see the stars
in their true constellations clearly.
Conundrums abound. How the cat’s
summer
claw turns round into ram’s horn, whorl
the curve’s instinct allows. Horn worm
ticks
on his green leaf, little chewing clock.
All things own the map to come home, to
change and sting – the subtle: as we are
unmoored, we are fastened
to the changing, growing light,
bidden to follow it through into ever-
lengthening shadow, the coming fall.
Short Subject: Stranger
Open with the young vagabond
coming towards us, a black dot
that gradually forms arms, legs,
a head, then features and colors
emerge, as if distance is fog and
closer is clear air. We can read
his face: he comes from over there,
where the devil is in the driver’s seat.
He doesn’t know that “over there”
is everywhere, that horror
moves faster than any imagination.
He carries a bundle into which
he has tied his book, his razor,
a picture of his family eating
outside together under a plane tree.
That is the dash of nostalgia.
Also, he carries a small dog with
eyes like carved coal. Tucked
under his jacket, this dog represents
hope, but we don’t know
what happens next, only
that it will be sad, and the hero
is the hero because of it. The author,
for his part, feels odd, calls
for music to end by, black birds
scribbled on the horizon.
The last scene has the dog
drinking from the ditch by the road
as our hero smokes and waits
for him to finish.
Reach For It
Reach for it, the fallen star
burning a hole in the carpet,
the dime the fat man can’t
quite pick up, the heart
that just won’t give in
to your reaching finger.
Try to remember her lips,
as if they were everything,
her hips and breasts,
that natural way she stood
naked and talked to you
as she felt the water warming.
The bath, the lowering,
the rising out of soapy foam
and water falling down her curves.
You’re the one with the stories.
You can see the coal tracing
an ever-larger ring in the rug,
the spilled bourbon soaking into
your pants, the dime shining up
at you, knowing you can’t make it
live in your pocket at your command.
Quinton Duval, is a poet, teacher, and editor who
has lived in the Sacramento area for most of his
adult life. He has a BA and MA in creative writing
from CSUS and an MFA from the Univ. of
Montana. He recently retired from teaching at
Solano Community College in Fairfield. He is the
editor and publisher of Red Wing Press and the
author of Dinner Music, Joe’s Rain, and Among
Summer Pines.
has lived in the Sacramento area for most of his
adult life. He has a BA and MA in creative writing
from CSUS and an MFA from the Univ. of
Montana. He recently retired from teaching at
Solano Community College in Fairfield. He is the
editor and publisher of Red Wing Press and the
author of Dinner Music, Joe’s Rain, and Among
Summer Pines.
