g r a v e l
A L I T E R A R Y J O U R N A L
down a crevasse &
A blaze of a day so
white it’s like some
laser pointer at each
compass point, as
swallow black fire.
Inside me, nothing
but a shadowed rift
& the throat’s fuse.
All matter loosens,
shatters into scree,
& spires in a wind,
so there is no other
revelation, as light’s
drunk down to lees.
On summer-long days with nothing to do,
When air itself has become an event,
The daylight lost, lingering stains on the dunes,
When the wind is still, wherever it went,
When clouds have closed their shadowy coffins
Of stone while all weather has vanished at last,
A crowd of faces that darkness has softened,
Erasing the line the horizon had cast
As the sun is reduced to the moon’s half
Glow: O, beyond any light, beyond even
Ourselves, beyond the starry aftermath
Of the end, the very thought of it barren,
That sigh inside us we cannot confess:
An aching again, which nothing can bless.