Here is the poem "Joni Mitchell," by Joseph Hutchinson. I found it in the anthology Sweet Nothings, and it was reprinted from Puerto del Sol.
Water falls white on the white washed stones, fingers light on piano or the spine of a lover. Sobs and exultations, the open mouths and eyes of astounded houses, doves dead in mid-air, a scatter of leaves like torn astrologies. With her voice full of swords and blossoms, salt and blond honey, voice like the ruffle of air off the tip of the heron's wing, she sings the scrawl of blood and the fiery scripture of nerves written under the skin. We've slept like mountains, but now drum and saxophone swim in our bodies, hook-jawed salmon that leap the black keys, dying for the drowned genital stars, their fine bones singing like tuning forks. And there are guitars overflowing like drunken goblets, shiny sea-turtles dragging inland, heavy with eggs. There are sparrows dreaming in the cradles of her wrists, and roses, and ashes, and oceans collapsing on empty beaches, sliding back helpless and rising again. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Deb Messling -^..^- [EMAIL PROTECTED] ----------------------------------------------------------------------