By John Isles
This poetry is set the folk and occasions that go through a lifestyles, leaving a void; approximately discovering a presence in that absence, and waking as much as the realities of the instant. it truly is considering discovery and disagreement, and uncovering and witnessing.
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Additional resources for Ark (Kuhl House Poets)
Lord, smite us in our chains. I escape. And I’m escaping into a whitewashed wall of morning. Myself a dark stain in that screen, an instinct for river and stream. A lost scent Sunglasses can’t hold me in ﬂashing eyes. Call it: illumination is to be bad by prayer. Call it: veritable ark upon the shoulders. A dinghy will do, a dinghy or a bed, a bed of a thousand lies will do. I’d lie like a prince. I’d search neglect — a mountainous rush of blood — a moonshine in the rocks and no distillery. This is called: the life of a galaxy.
Sea of black shoulder. Black eyes undressing. O, I say and turn to what’s left unsaid. My eyes with the swallows construct biographies in the eaves, daylight distilling in amber, honeyed essence of . . I want to say the moment’s soul, time-being liqueﬁed & oozing between boards. Flies stumble, clear of conscience. Light, my pilgrim, you’re not the one I’m looking for. Shadow, my pilgrim, I follow you till you follow me around. [ 34 ] The House Changing Hands Our street no longer stumbles into trees.
Shadow, my pilgrim, I follow you till you follow me around. [ 34 ] The House Changing Hands Our street no longer stumbles into trees. The sign is gone along with the dead end. British-green BMWs lead each other by invisible threads past houses in colors of nouveau New England’s mauve and robin-egg blue. A professional couple in a swath of Kentucky-blue-green grass ply their beautiful, shiny-faced daughter on her ﬁrst bicycle where my brothers scraped the bottoms of their rowboats and spread their nets to dry.