by David ChorltonWhy not something restful, likea still life by Morandiyou could contemplate and finda sense of order in? Why not a landscapeby Constable to bring back treeslong since cut down? Why nota Nolde watercolourbright enough to burn your eyes?You must have knownyour walls will shudder as longas they contain your new acquisition;you must have bargained withthe sleepless nights spent listeningto a cry never stopping for breath.How’s the demand for grief today?There’s enough to go around:it runs out of the faucetswhen we turn them and a river’s lastdrops trickle into our sinks;it stands at the intersection witha cardboard sign asking for a dollar;it comes home from a war inbandages. And every time you gointo the secret room you keep it into stare down the throat of everyperson who can’t standthe world they’re in, that the priceis always rising.David Chorlton has lived in Arizona since 1978, when he moved from Vienna, Austria. While much of his poetry is about the Southwestern landscape, his newest publication, and first work of fiction, is The Taste of Fog from Rain Mountain Press, reflecting a darker side of Vienna._____________________________________________________

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