Hierophany

When there is
nowhere left to look,
I look to the sky.
When I cannot look into pawned jewelry boxes,
into vases void of flowers;
when I am looking for echoes,
for the sound of her falling hair
hitting the carpet,
I look up.  Up, up.

One day I looked up
and it was perfectly clear.
Nothing was no clouds, just sun.
The sun:
          my enemy, her keeper;
          the burning, brutal dictator
                    of light and dark;
          holding the patent on sweat;
          running a racket of heat and height.

To whom can I appeal
the sun’s denial of our
otherwise happily dark
and ice-age-cold existence?
Get out of the way,
he says to the clouds,
let me see her; Take
your curls and wisps
          your mare’s tails, congestions, and puffs
          and burn to thinnest ether.
          Zip, zip:
                    there are no shapes left in your chest;
                    diamonds, hearts, and rings
                    are for slot machines
                              not atmospheres.

Like that,
          imposing his particle rule
          through the million miles
                    of sky’s sky,
          he burns away the clouds
          and captures her with light,
          reminding me once again
                    I am human:
          the sky’s not mine,
                    and neither is the earth.

This entry posted by J Rand : 19:36