Wednesday, April 30, 2008

Copernican Moments

The sun, fragile and cinnamon, 
pushes fingers of fog apart, 
offering rare stereopticon 
glimpse of garden—
the unconcerned sticks 
of dark roses,
the overachieving narcissus, 
with urgency, struggling 
through cold soil. 
I pour a second cup, 
stir, lick the sugared spoon, 
and stare at a pristine page hoping 
for a frenetic genesis 
in the frozen clay of my brain—
as if the stirring of digestion 
and desire could make
ink pour thick and rich 
like coffee, and words could 
grope and grow 
like the fleshy purslane 
beginning to crack the sidewalk 
or the mint that thrust—
all winter—
its thin yellow fingers 
through the stone 
into my empty basement 
only to dangle limp, pale 
and blind with fatigue, to die 
above the washer, as brittle 
as sun-bleached bones 
lined up toward an oasis 
in distant untroubled sands.

This poem originally appeared in Juice, Issue 1: Spring 2008.