Jan/Feb 2019 • Vol. XLI No. 1 Poetry |

From “Noon, Fire, and No Shade”

7:00 A poet resides in a tree, in the pattern of leaves awash in light. He extends to me a blooming, branch-like arm, almond or plum, a delicate gift, and with one motion transports me from one bank to the other. This truly happened. It always does: I clearly saw what can be seen only fleetingly, just as Blake saw an angel emerge from a wingless insect. There’s no proof. Only disappointment and bitter pride — I’ve been chosen, but I lost the scepter in the mud, and the crown is a rumor I try to place on my head, each morning anew, careful not to stop before the ever-alert mirror 11:59 Behind the pages a lizard climbs up the slope, breaking through the unknown, the beating beating of a dark heart in a small transparent body, the tiny creature never tires, the woman nearly buckles under the burden of light. She has eyes, she has seen many things between dream and dream, in the newspaper a skiff laden with black refugees has sunk. She has eyes and heart and she is sister

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