Two Poems

by Tal Clapp

11:30, SUNDAY

Curtains open on the balcony
blue porcelain sky at the horizon
over rooftops and streets
pinging light
off taxis and windows.
Opening the door, a hot breeze;
the just damp laundry
sheds a fleeting cool.
Two quick steps over hot concrete
and the swim trunks come
flipping off the line.


The faint cone of the volcano
darkens into view,

a long swath of sea
becomes a sudden path,

and the sky grows lighter from its base
in colored bands like sandstone

On the beach, a dog bounds
into the surf after a ball

and the mountain has grown darker,
the sky paler,

the sun a coin
pressed into the slot
between sky and stone,
and gone