December 15, 2008

Over Nazareth Bay

Inscribed in the strange
dialect of butterflies,
there are furrows
that open and close,
a flurry of lines
folding into shadow
before it can be
called shadow,
the incipience
of curves around
the improbable fact
that clouds here
are nothing but
soft crucibles.

If there is an eclipse,
I know that night
will never be different again.
What choice have I
but to dip sharply, pitch upward
like some small music box
of invisible muscle
saturating each
human glance
with violet—

I know what happens
if I never land.
You will motion
me closer and I,
off-balance, brightly
inflected with edges,
will obey.

—Scott Glassman

Posted by dwaber at December 15, 2008 01:43 PM