Gregory Warren Wilson Three Poems

The Opacity of Strangeness

As soon as the April hailstorm ended my new Somali neighbour crunched to the middle of his lawn gathered up a handful of granules and took them back indoors . . . to pierce with a hot needle and thread on fuse wire like seed pearls.

We only ever meet in passing, choosing limes in the corner shop, picking over the star anise, deferential as students at an evening class practising idioms, turns of phrase . . . hailstones in the ice-cube tray, matching pairs like moonstone earrings.