Monday, August 30, 2010

All it has passed over

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Moon Falls


under its own weight, laden by the tonnage
of all it has passed over through the night.
Is it always this way, you might ask. Yes,
always. The night is long and all that can
happen does. We survive; we don’t. If we
do, then a poem becomes possible at the
end of it. You rise to stand in a glory of
your own nakedness and gaze out across
the undimming field as the great thing slowly
slips behind eucalyptus, casts the figure
of a lone raptor high in silent obsidian as
sky fails to hold it up and if you press silent
enough you may hear the faint scratching
of dawn skittering in the bush, a stirring
industry convening in the bramble and, amid
this small miracling, your breathing belies you
and you are something new becoming, like all
of it, untested and graceless, congealing before
a breaking of fire and it is good, this; very good.

Joseph Gallo
August 24, 2010


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