Monologues in a San Francisco Night
by David Allen

The city closes in visions
eyes bend from house light and fog.
 
A seventy-year-old woman
finds her clitoris and the flood.
 
A young, east-coaster reclaims
the moist noun “cunt.”
 
After the night's monologues
performed at the playhouse
 
my wife's hand feels like
the flower of Atlantis
 
a blossom dead on the shores of Sicily,
alive in the palms of the world.

»Back to Poetry List