The great transition is born in the virgin hours of day:
A girl with a flooding face - her hair: hot
with wheat dreadlocks cracking the sky.
Her nose bleeds a vision of garnet fireworks
dribbling down to gravity's hungry womb.
I long to see her reaction as noon rises,
nipping at the end of morning's skirt
like a child's sucking eyes. She is safe,
off-guard and eyelid-heavy, cerebrating
on the afternoon's distanced seizure,
when the fuchsia haze will roll over
to the chalky blacks of night.
At three o'clock children are still alive
as grass. And she goes down slow
as a sinking ship in the harbor gray.
Sun probes my background,
pitching it's pink glare and daunting
of quick black eyes and nails that the moon
cannot hide, and stars will never brandy-up for.
Hollowed-out skies wait on yellow memories.
Almost succumbed, she rolls
from the newborn coal soul as her feet sink
into the muddy earth. And the fallen leaves
brush off sun to days final embers.
Poetry by Christin Brennan
Read 1029 times
Written on 2007-10-25 at 22:46
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