Portrait of a Sphere




Tonight, wind’s tongues lick this lollipop
world. The moon’s low crescent glows a white
smile, a place where heaven sags, the silver
face of a raindrop falling into light,
its tin-trumpet voice barely audible,

like a tail of single thread. I don’t want
to understand the universe, the chime
of dextral and sinistral spirals
sewing time and blood together. Halos
are the study of an ankle, how space

curves, vortices whirl – how the pauper, lacking
an entrance and wearing a grin, pivots,
tips his hat, gropes fingerless dawn’s sharp
cold. He chooses you, duck-lipped girl, desires

the roundness of your face and body, sees
the happy old woman you will be when pink
feet have turned to leather. He knows

that sinning is the first half of resolve,
that forgiveness makes all else possible.

Buffalo Carp (2006); See Spot Run (2012)


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