I can't say if it's what you mean to say, but the poem
seems stronger, 
I still wonder at this line:

> What do apple trees mean to you or anyone really?

it's a good line, but I wonder why the speaker exempts
herself, why she claims some special knowledge that
makes her question only 'you or anyone' not herself.

> There is no return to Eden, no end to selfish love
> stories

this is good, I think, I don't know, I'm going to Key
West tomorrow and don't really want to go, in part
because there is no return to an Eden that would never
be from the beginning, but perhaps the orchids and the
mango ice and the cigars and even the salt air in the
palms will make me feel that again, as if present.
Some things are a torment, and you're lucky I think
that it resolves into words, hieroglyphics of exile,
birds, and stories, which I can see now, though I
couldn't in my first reading, is really central to the
poem. And that's nice, too, that feeling that when the
speaker is home she dreams of home and when she's home
she dreams of a pleasant island of grapefruits and
tangerines. So I think this revision has found sort of
its main tributary. And this poem, in general, is much
a development in your work.

best,

Rebecca

--- deborah russell <[log in to unmask]>
wrote:

> Another Horizon
> 
> In a sequence of sonnets, I become weary of old
> dreams -
> dusty images that film the windows as sunlight webs
> the walls …
> When away from home, I dream of being home - when
> home, I dream of being alone on an island scented
> like tangerines, grapefruits and poems without
> vengeance . . .
> The difference between now and summer is not you or
> me,
> it isn’t endless poetry. . .this morning it is
> merely the buds that
> unfurl on the apple trees outside my front door
> My traveling mind is wandering, wondering how many
> times
> I will notice changes - observe random thoughts with
> pencil
> renegades - no doubt, to live on in complete
> oblivion
> What do apple trees mean to you or anyone really?
> I read wavering smoke their meaningless twists
> and translate the ribbons as signals in illiterate
> forms
> I watch subtle movements form another and yet
> another
> horizon and remember some details of our
> last dinner with an urgency to revise the poem
> of a thousand unknown languages - I’m inclined to
> notice
> the warmth of the sun, the white tentacles on tiny
> leaves
> and the scent of the blank page of my notebook
> In transformations of light (over white stones
> and garden statuary) there is the start;  a poem
> of dozing spiders, webbed in the shadow of the
> terrace
> There is no return to Eden, no end to selfish love
> stories
> their stages of death and dying as the sun feeds the
> night
> 
> A bird labors across the sky in the exile of
> hieroglyphs
> and blazing letters
> 
> 
> Deborah Russell © 2006
> 
> (still not sure if it is what i mean to say...)
> 


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