Tom Jacobs © 2006 All Rights Reserved

Year in Milan

A long mink of smog, Milan was
sulphur and friction.

Newspapers chattering along a fence.
That was Milan—
a park scabbed with grass.

Damp in suede, summer scalded,
while winter shuddered like a lung.

The sky was aluminum, abandoned
of clouds, shepherds
and husbandry.

Soot born of nothing.
Noise without source.

A thousand toasts and kisses
without joy.

And amid laughter,
amid the swagger of passion,

not one true,
not one red thing.



Postcards from Paris

it’s not what you’d expect
everything is grey
an enormous locomotive
that can’t move

boulevards hoist up buildings
trees root under cobblestone

the concierge returns from lunch
around the time
you’re waking up at home

the poor in every city
are the same
a handkerchief
an upturned cap

five days the sun
lit up the cold
before the rain came
with its peculiar comfort

yes, all the words are beautiful
they spill from the lips of children
to the pavement

across from the hotel
a wind almost
shakes the trees from their cages


Sarah Sloat
Copyright © 2006


Sarah Sloat works for a news agency in Frankfurt, Germany, where she's lived for 14 years. Her poetry has appeared in Diner, West Branch and 3rd Muse, among other publications. Her poem "The War is Still Ending" was nominated by the DMQ Review for the Pushcart Prize in 2005.

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