The streetlight flickers,
its circle thinning and swelling
like a tired breath.
A man drags a cart of bottles—
they strike and scatter
against each other,
a bright clatter
that almost arranges itself,
as if you could lean in
and hear the fragments
choose their own song.
.
This poem is excellent (as
This poem is excellent (as yours always are), and that final stanza is a real powerhouse. It reminded me of the dry bones' song in T. S. Eliot's poem, Ash Wednesday. And any poem that can remind me of his great achievement is a wonderful poem, indeed.
Starward-Led [in Chrismation, Januarius]
The Hope
Blessed be the day
when the root grows downward
and the fruit reaches upward.
Blessed be the moment
when the dry branch blossoms.
Blessed be the silence
that becomes song.
Blessed be the ashes
that become life.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
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