Published in Page & Spine June 26, 2015
At night I plug holes in the universe,
extend metaphorical arms to the sky,
massage the night feeling for
rough spots and tiny holes
the eye cannot see but
the heart knows are there,
the quiet hiss of leaking love
a dead giveaway.
At night I plug holes in the universe.
I know that I will curse the sun,
and I will tire of the light,
the dampness and humidity
will be all that I can bear,
and I will dream of winter.
But for now I will delight in
the first fine day of spring.
Blue sky and a hot car, windows down,
top open and wild hair,
the first trickle of sweat.
Anxious for fresh picked tomatoes,
just shucked corn, and blueberries
picked by the side of a dirt road,
the cawing gulls that follow
the days catch, the night’s dinner.
Smell the basil in the garden
the scent of pine on a hot breeze
honeysuckle rides the wind
everywhere summer abounds,
and I will dream of winter.
Time and Velocity.
Abstract concepts
in a universe where
we run when we’re late
for very important dates.
But time is nothing
or everything
and speed doesn’t matter
or does it?
Pour dust on shadows
and they fade with the light
we see but can’t touch,
like the time that
doesn’t exist
or it might
and the speed that
doesn’t
Matter
is constant;
we are
what we are
whenever we are,
wherever we are.
Ever-changing
static
one form to another.
Lover to lover.
Words are shadows
that fade with the light.
Time is lost in a vacuum of
I love you,
Words of
a flat earth.
Blazing Star
teases the spotlight,
the woeful sun.
Brighter than 12 o’clock,
softer at 4 o’clock,
sought after midnight
night after night.
Star-gazers longing,
tense at the sight.
Neon lights on the block
can’t compete
when a body
on fire
feeds desire
lust
the feel of heat,
a look, a gaze.
To dream
of this body on earth
as it is, as it must be,
in Heaven
ablaze. A Star
risen from the rough,
a gem,
both star and diamond
carbon.
From coal, from earth,
a star among us,
one of us.
We find her
at 2 o’clock.
—
Fluid amber waves
through glass,
a momentary pleasure,
a grain of promise,
heat and desire,
high noon in summer,
midnight in winter
by a fire,
a full moon deceit
reflected behind regimented soldiers,
spirits.
Don’t look there.
Look there!
Enticing, seductive,
more, than you
are, than you deserve.
You know —
you refuse to know —
admit
you are not as desirable
as she
but it doesn’t matter
what you see through
goldened eyes
delights, for now
a grainy specter
in the dark night,
absent at dawn, but
alive
at 2 o’clock.
No boy with waxen wings
plummeting to the sea.
No laughing cackling child
“Look at me!”
Not I.
No more a maid
wandering well-worn paths,
bound by others’ steps,
looking backwards,
always past.
Always passed.
Reflected in
ballroom masques
eyes bright behind the
lash.
Not I.
Wings on fire,
wings of light,
flames through the darkness
noon shadows at night.
Soar to the heavens,
sparks ignite.
Two of us burning;
my wings, you … star.
I,
with wings of fire
fade to ash.
Lucy Gregg Muir 