Jason Myers
Devour
The deadness of the day devours me
until, in my shoulders, I receive a little
salvage. The pity of the sky is that
it dreams of being ocean, doesn’t
know it is. After the cinema, we all
hush, huddled around our small
fires. Forgive me, I ruined the Weber.
Forgive me, I’m speaking in tongues.
When I try to put a word to the words
I want, a further flower fetches me
to horizons aghast with possibility.
The wind lectures the lucky leaves
of the oak tree who has witnessed
agonies more multiple than any
calculator can figure. Test its branches
to find its faith. When I was a blonde
little idiot I had no fear of the tide,
would let my bones shim the skeins
of sand an old Hebrew poet
told me were less numerous than
the thoughts of God who dwelt inside
my blood. How the water felt like
mouth after mouth, rough
on the sides of my limbs as I
skidded, swam, stood before
the dark walls of waves begging
for the hour never to come
when I’d be culled from this
restless sorcery, whirled
without end, amen, amen.