To the futile sound of midnight church bells, out back someone is rinsing her thoughts in unfathomable universal sky— a cold faint glowing. As always stars are white as salt on the blade of an old axe. The rain-barrel’s full, there’s ice in its mouth. Smash the ice—comets and stars melt away like salt, the water darkens and the earth on which the barrel stands is transparent underfoot, and there too are galaxies, ghost-pale and roaring silently in the seven-hundred-odd chambers of the mind. Copyright @ 2014 by Reginald Gibbons. Used with permission of the author. |
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