Saturday, September 18, 2021

mythos

This field has fallen

to the bottom of the gray

escarpment, day climbing to

dusk, footwork and the feels

stitched to the stage,

this old show, this ancient 

gaze fixed upon a missing star—

the choir and the clockwork 

elevate each urgency 

seared into the flesh by

wheel work and wet work 

laws and longings,

crowns and blasphemes

the story standing in the wind.

This is the night upon us, 

this is the bumptious dark,

the flame hidden by 

the hand, cupped palm

giving the fire life. 

at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

the habit

The dog is barking and you’re sick in the dark, surrounded by the sounds of the wind and television, dying hard with every habit. Now the li...

  • invocation
    This is how your letter finds me, as beaten and bowed as nature allows. This is how your letter finds me, a little lighter on the metaphor. ...
  • into stone
    The heart is reckless mechanism. The heart is an essential worker. The heart won’t leave well enough alone. Carrying torches and keeping tim...
  • faith
    Knowing no more of music than what you hear you see three crows fly across four power lines and think: Music! And that is seeing. And that i...