Poem in Flux

 

As if incandescence

imitates

inertia, the self-hurl

at angles

into what was if

for a minute

the air. From flight,

behold as it would

the incestuous dive

into clear cold pools

of language, words

that sink into the silt

of tissue, cell, and brain,

seep into the chant

of requiem.   Be silent.

This world

will resound in aria,

the starlings

descend, black songs

in the mouth of dawn.

 

 

 

 

Published in The Red Clay Review

 

 

                                                  

                                 

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“Sleepwalker”

silk-screen by Carol Buchman

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