Tag: sky

a practice of nearness

choreographies of skin and gravity

Love this like weather
that unmasks a gentle sky.

Do not name this trembling.
or hush what aches to bends her spine.

A need for collapse
can be a call to kneeling
in disguise.

What sways this cathedral of air
ringing bells at impossible altitude,
clouding windows with myths
of ascent, her scent lingers, low––

an invitation: after such dizzy heights,
what longing there is to kiss the earth,
to press mouth against cooled ash,
admit devotion.

What impossibility, to confess
this softness —this animal
obedience to soil, its churn.
How bones remember the
murmurs of earth.

Here, too, see how body mistakes
obliteration for grace, a silence
that bows but never
calls it prayer.

sidling up

between membranes

When winter stills the air from vapored vowels of our mouths into crystal-edged mirrors between us, I want to imagine that what follows will be sharp enough to see through to the other sides of ancient wounds and cut the teeth of inner ears on choral voices bathing in the residue of final breaths, still unheard. And so I look on, ignorant and wanting while the departed clip still-growing fingernails, blowing steam rings over my head.

Windows

The fractured sky.

Glaziers mark to frame the squinting eye, here is what a sky becomes when you wake to the way the moon was always there beside the sun and inside a kaleidoscope of parallel heavens: now blue, now crimson, now slate, now yellow, each breaking into the next, and yet––instead of falling, it holds.

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Inspired by the stained-glass sky collages of photographer Alex Hyner, as described here.

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