Michael Carrino has an M.F.A. in Writing from Vermont College. He is
a retired English lecturer at the State University College at Plattsburgh,
New York, where he was co-editor and poetry editor of the Saranac
Review and still works as an associate poetry editor for that journal.. His
publications include Some Rescues, (New Poets Series, Inc.) Under This
Combustible Sky, (Mellen Poetry Press), Café Sonata, (Brown Pepper
Press), and Autumn’s Return to the Maple Pavilion (Conestoga Zen
Press), as well as individual poems in numerous journals and reviews. A
fifth book of poetry is forthcoming from Guernica Press, Montreal/Toronto
In this scene bare elm branches
reach into a purple sky.
Wearing a black wool coat
Anja will stand near
a deep, gray river–
blonde hair curled, tousled
in a chilled wind.
Anja’s pale hands
will disappear behind her back.
Anja will turn slowly
to face a forest path–
It will always be late
October twilight. Anja
will always be prepared–
take two, take three. Anja
will always be willing,
eager to never change.
Transparent blue corundum, translucent
Crystal, Purple blue,
deeper hyacinth blue, or Mazarine
stronger than cyanine
blue, a greener Peking or light Japan
blue, maybe Flemish blue.
I imagine one blue-throated hummingbird
in Brazil, where I have
never traveled, rare as any precious stone.
I consider you enticed – hummingbird, sapphire,
willing to be lured
away from cold New England sky, stained blue wind,
charmed by crystal, an exquisite wing.
Imagine an elite model beckoning
a cab with one manicured finger.
Diamonds dust her platinum necklace,
thin straps on soft Malono Blahniks.
Imagine slick covers of Vogue,
Elle and Cosmopolitan. Cameras
always poised in Venice,
Paris, Rome or Barcelona.
Later, quiet for one night,
she’s entranced by Márquez, Neruda,
intently read by dim lamplight
in a room – St. Bart’s or Aruba.
White wine and chocolate are savored.
There are not many regrets,
nothing worth escaping.
Night After Day
You said I’d forget
each long wait
on the metro platform,
late in the night—
forget lush curls
across your pale
night, in rooms
above the Thai
restaurant, that street
with a name
I could never
how I’d forget
when and how
and I did
for a time, until
night after day
I could have ever
wanted to believe you.