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Picture
Untitled 3, Andrew Graber, 2024.

Two POEMS

Rodrigo Toscano

The Spot 

But if a 60 ft. curling wave of 
             heavy flying foam 
surges up 
             your avenues
submerging all 
             in its path
till it reaches
             this hilltop
then recedes 
             barreling back
to shore 
             dragging all down
with it— 

What with the 90 ft. wall of sea 
behind it? 

Time to flee— 

But where? 

All directions
             downslopes 
valleys like buckets
             under lakes of 
gurgling green 
             mindless mass    
churning
             vanishing 
all that was
             a moment ago— 

Then look up
             last sight of the sun
balmy breeze
             no word-life to tend
no values to push
             no dotting p’s and q’s
of a morning song 
             perfecting the tone
proportioned 
             rhythms of 
surging intellect 
             fusing onto
unlaced emotion
             meandering
scraping the rocks
             of morality
extruding  
             out-of-the-clouds 
carnality
             clasping at  
torrid detail 
             the slips
the sways
             pooling there
gouges in time
             tacking towards
a terminus
             vast 
buffeted 
             by sudden cold
rushing wind
             with a thick
earthy 
             aroma 
filling your lungs— 

Air! Air! Air! 

Then awake— 

This searing sunlight 
             caressing
the unblinking 
             blank expression 
of your gut’s 
             raw intention 
is the rudder 
             of your tottering skiff
skimming the edges of 
             these populated beaches— 

That there
             on shore--
is your spot

See you there 


Theatrics of the Continental Shelf

There’s always the crumbling cliffside
to boost your sense of finitude 
transposing high hopes to bonkers

On top of that, there’s gray herons 
doing whatever they do right 
bewitched by things seen and unseen 

That this shrub needs a pinch of salt
blown to it daily by the sea 
makes for a fogbank of good sense  

There’s calcified thrills in the sand 
arranged to bequeath solutions
soon, you’ll dig’em up, one by one

O! What bottomless purple hues! 
but how extrapolate from sunbeams
same for – O! What ominous green!

The pebbles are becoming round
the seaweed tangles into knots 
the fogbank bonks out, then ascends

There’s always the lone pelican 
compounding an impulse to sleep
affirming the mandate to wake


Rodrigo Toscano is a poet and dialogist based in New Orleans. He is the author of eleven books of poetry. His latest books are The Cut Point (Counterpath Press, 2023) and The Charm & The Dread (Fence Books, 2022).  Forthcoming is WHITMAN. CANNONBALL. PUEBLA. (2025). His Collapsible Poetics Theater was a National Poetry Series selection. His poetry has appeared in Best American Poetry and Best American Experimental Poetry (BAX). rodrigotoscano.com
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