Fall 2009 • Vol. XXXI No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 2009 |

The Aurora Called Destiny

Selene was hearing voices again. It had become something she was apt to do now & then; she heard the voices, but she could not recall the names. . . . When she slept, voices choired her into the heavens, & when she awoke they lay her along the bed of dawn. She was precise & independent in this illumination, & she found herself in the descent of many wings, like a vortex of angelic understandings. Everything that seemed to sing echoed in harmony around her, & the fevered happiness broke like sweat along her skin. If the body shows it is the soft white of wax, if the fox moves across the field & the white meadows by the black woods, then what do we know of our deaths? What do we know of the impossible weathers we must transcend?                   What do we know of the milk of the future & the milk of the end? Here is your destiny—it is the color of lapis & mirrors, of the glass which empties itself

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Selene was hearing voices again. It had become something she was apt to do now & then; she heard the voices, but she could not recall the names. . . […]

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