Saturday, November 01, 2014

Something you cannot know

 photo Novemberia3.jpg


One day you wake up to this: quail
scratching the afterrain ground for
seed, anchored columns bent over
by their own impossible weight in
a double-rainbow across the meadow,
the air stripped of summer as drops
come now to sheet your shoulders
with this moment as a scrub jay lands
atop the desiccated century stalk you
fixed to the cruciform trellis with a
blue bungee cord so that jays and
white-crowned sparrows and black
phoebes might take a surveyful rest
before your gaze as you scout for
something you cannot know you are
seeking, something in the near and
far distances that have bridged every
world you’ve discovered or abandoned,
every world burned down or built up,
worlds without, worlds within.

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And now the irony of rain and sun
arrive together in that mysterious way
they do, the one science says is so
very common you forget that it’s so
each time it happens, so you don’t run
or shelter, instead you T out your arms
and turn a slow spin before all the sun-
scrubbed orbs above you that also spin
to rotate their wonders in all you cannot
see but know are there, the violent beauty
of things from a distance, shared forces
that move whales in your heart, scatter
birds in your breath, speed driver ants
through the blood tunnels that riddle
you with sorcery and dark magic, move
you out into something that only seems
outside yourself, a mirror meant for such
madness if you will but reflect there.

Joseph Gallo
November 1, 2014

 photo Novemberia1.jpg


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