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00191_Field_Lantern p.1.txt
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1995-11-13
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580b
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11 lines
Acetylene! Touched torch! An orange
ball, and all life candled on its memory:
arranged so, earth held up between such satellites
as sun, as eye, high noon between the Atlas Range
and Madagascar, drifting west, and nightfall settled
here on my stooped shoulders like a black box-cameraΓÇÖs
cape, squeeze-bulb in my hand, scintilla
set to powder in the instant still, stillΓÇö
O say, what might I see? See land limned
in a whey of white stone falling to the seafloor, chyme
and lymph and salt and pulse-beat just off-center, sun