Wake to Days of Hands
I hear the fold of mountains in my sleep
in the almost quiet, ambered half of morning.
Beneath slow moving waters the black iris recalls
what it needs of consciousness. I begin to arrive.
Between breath and the first pale of dawn,
a space of making. A face to meet the faces.
in the almost quiet, ambered half of morning.
Beneath slow moving waters the black iris recalls
what it needs of consciousness. I begin to arrive.
Between breath and the first pale of dawn,
a space of making. A face to meet the faces.
Sometimes a winged bird crashing the panes.
For a split instant, it seems hilarious, all that,
all that comic desperation. And then the horror –
bead-black eyes, the pulse of scapulae
damaging primaries against glass, and
how can you measure victory;
your enemy, your reflection.
all that comic desperation. And then the horror –
bead-black eyes, the pulse of scapulae
damaging primaries against glass, and
how can you measure victory;
your enemy, your reflection.
John M. Bellinger is the former Managing Editor (2006-2009) and a current staff editor of The Comstock Review. He has been published in The Comstock Review, Blue Unicorn, and Ekphrasis. He also has new work in Cottonwood, America Magazine, and online for One-Sentence Poems.
