Catholicon
       

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.

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Copyright © 2015 Steve Mueske All rights reserved
from Slower Than Stars
Ravenna Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission