Poem: Light and Air

This poem, and three others by me, just went up in the latest issue of Pirene's Fountain. To read them all, go here:

Owl Drinks of Pirene's Waters

This is a high quality site that is ambitious and marvelous due to the superb synergy between the minds of the editorial staff. Pirene's Fountain gives off one of the best auras of any journal I have ever encountered. What this means, I don't exactly know--but it is my heart, speaking out from ineffable caverns of passion--that bids me say it.

Fly Well,

OWL

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Light and Air

light sits on an infant’s face,
frightens him--for the colors
are the fires in things,
shifting on a field
where contours burn and rub.
only liars can make sense of it,
this cinerarium.

air avoids such violence.
the infant does not drown
when suckling it
into his confused mouth.

air, that constant womb,
it regenerates him over and over,
deflects the pure bright stab
of light’s splinters.

air so dark and encapsullating.
light the hatchet, coming down
to slay the cosmic Egg.
once it was a universe unto itself.
no complications in the orbits.
no flame.


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