Poetry by Vic Cavalli in Toronto Poetry Magazine
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Published February 5, 2018
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Poetry by Victor Cavalli
(Langley, British Columbia, Canada)

Building a Renaissance Gate
The Gravel Road
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Building a Renaissance Gate

What would Vittorino do with a canto on a gate
      dragged out of the mountain’s shoulder’s wood?  What
                              could be said would
      be clearly of great worth, for he
Was a man to respect.  And even if he didn’t see
      it as a leaf of wood ink-stained carefully,
      it would not matter I suspect.  Had he been
                              there in the bush with the insects
                              and twigs snapping at eyes, seen the care
Taken in selecting the two large trees to bear
      it long, the gate of entrance, dragged out of there
the raw materials and hauled them back
to the house, and there mad naked
Those woods peeling with a blade wide the sappy skin
      from the white flesh of new wood beneath,
had he carefully wielded the blade
between and through and around the
arterial boughs entangled atop, and
      so prepared the two columns for
standing in the neck of air, and so prepared
their venous systems for reaching towards
each other in closure, in framing anatomy,
Then the trees naked planted deep in cool dirtless holes
      dark and elemental, fusion-like to the trees’
      tastes, would trees again be vertical but dead and lasting
(the naked branches reach like the arm
of Adam in Michael’s painting).
They are severe now in new form; a suggestion has made them display;
      they sang of the suggester until the veins dropped off
      with rot and wind, until the song of their skinless
      strength dissolved as all song in the air must.
Vittorino, had he helped us or not would little difference
      have made, for he would have loved that song.



The Gravel Road

As our shocks hammered in dust over the gravel
Heading for the rock festival,
A rushing stream shimmered through the green
Of the thick forest siding our dusty vein.
Then onto the road, like a crashing boulder,
A sudden hysterical soul, long blonde hair nested and wild,
Naked and howling—in his left hand a near-empty gallon
Of cheap red wine sloshed its last 3 inches left;
In his right hand a huge hunting knife raged at us.
We skidded towards him, gouging the gravel—
As he waved the blade to rip open the radiator gut of our car.
Then like a bombed ghost he hurled himself away
And vanished back into the Jack Pine flames.


Biography
Vic Cavalli's poetry, short fiction, photography, and visual art have been
published in literary journals in Canada, the United States, England, North
Africa, and Australia.
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