Saturday, December 09, 2006

Prose Poem


Angel’s Trumpet, on southern descent toward the ground that delivered it—blooms of 8 inches. Stately tents in compositions of light, skin spongy, exposing its sex through the open flaunt of female scent. Young buds spiral to safety, learn lessons from older (middle-aged) cousins.

Held fast to chandelier’s arms not yet spun with wire, electric surge, or pulse; stems lit instead through accidental positions with natural light, not yet matured to radiate an own way.

Attached to stem, the full potential of biology observed. How the cell splits, harrows, burrows a new path; bursts. Then there are variegated moments, streaks of white to peach, pink to grey.

And there are lights that never go out. A world of white-capped cable lighting up our complete lives. Lighting up at midnight. Lighting paths to confession, to drugstores. Even at 5am, the hour a fine time to switch a good dream sequence, there are lights lit up for something. For the birds, maybe.


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