Saturday, May 04, 2013


Wind and sun are not enough for us.
We talk as if they are, on rocks
think of great wings over the water,
think of a railing, between ourselves
and the nothingness overstocked
with so much.

Slowly that thought has passed
which once crowded the world.
We sit in uneasy harmony
of the kind that doesn't break
light-boats of melted sand flakes,
nimbused with outline
of heat to carry the shadow,
over sand at rest, wet,
and not at rest after all.

These are the islands of escaped children
whose own orbs carried them here.
Not through the air, but through
the imagined air, where a brightness
goes to die in the mind.
And the mention of bluejays
and the mention of cardinals
arrayed against each other on
a dry-ice chessboard, brows furrowed
in loving parody of mutual respect,
the river is real, the river is a projection.

1 comment:

raw poetry by donna snyder said...

Ah, it's been too long since I've felt the exquisite giddiness that comes from reading your poetry, Luke. Thank you for this fortuity of seeing you float by in the newsline, and so grabbing the chance to get drunk on poetry before breakfast.