Lumen
       

The dry cleaner's dumpster, the luminol, the glove,
        the chill
                                            of office neon in the night.

        Just as a million phones were lighting up at dawn,
        the angel
                                of bare essentials arrives.

        The body on the embalmer's table turns to silver.

        Her name remains as flowers do
                                                                    a while longer.
        It lingers in the paper
                                like ice and stars in the morning.

        You are not alone.

        When a river meets a river,
                                the name of the smaller one
                                            dies.
                                                                    But the waters rise.
                The flesh remembers

        When darkness falls, one light fades

                                                        to feed the others.

Tweet
Copyright © 2019 Bruce Bond All rights reserved
from Poetry Northwest
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission