Say that the sun, bitter pill, Is full of dividing edges, Sharp essences that will not meld Or coalesce, even like worn lovers, 5 In the dark. The black chalks Have riven us in their abiding way And left a charcoal powder on the rose For that choice globe and hale eye to scoff at Ringed with fiery hooks 10 And chastising sparks, I stare at it And ask myself, pawing the powder From my nose, eyeing its razor skirt, Of the heft of ONE phalange that it flaunts.
From the collection "Hymns"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.