to hold the feather
The eyes havenít, but reach for light,
content to shape the edge to a world
in the liquor of space, field of diamonds
framing - as if the bird were there
to hold the feather. Carved in meat,
the brain touches the muscled shadows,
oohing and aahing at hairs on the arm
of a dream. The cracked cup of God
at clumsy lips - we spill on the chin
more than we sip. The teapot tempest
is sufficient to sweep us away, unheard
in the roar we are part of, pure.
We make an agony of song,
of omnipresent airs - a breath.
And hold to feathers. Trust in light.
Copyright © 2003 JB Mulligan