Today's poem is by Steve Mueske
Some say the worth of a bird
is two blackberries and one cloud.
Some, a mother snapping
a wet dishrag or
an old priest with cold hands.
Everything becomes a dove or a cock
in the right light.
When the earth is backlit and just-bruised;
you can sometimes see wind herding fog
into the gelid sky,
but only from certain perspectives
and only if you leave your body.
Men in the sop of yellow light:
the air acrid; a palsy of flesh
at close quarters.
Down a hallway reeking of piss, the closed
room, the soft light,
a woman gently blowing feathers.
She removes his spars, says a prayer
for parting. When she opens
her hands, the air fills with fog, lit
like a white heart tearing itself on briars.
Copyright © 2015 Steve Mueske All rights reserved
from Slower Than Stars
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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