Between Pulses

Inside I push against ancient skins
once plankton and algae, soft pillowed bodies
buoyancy lost, sunk, oozed with age
resurrected on a three hundred millionth year
baked brittle.
Their cups hold my finger tips
I pour words into a holy grail.

Outside two gray foxes trace a vital ocher line
with ebony noses to pull them
through moss and brambles
holding, losing olfactory caches.
In long litanies of prayer
they arrive before dawn
for a Eucharist of Sylvilagus floridanus.

So busy in and out of the chase
so sticky the threads of odyssey
we forget who blesses the breath between pulses
who parts the curtain to kiss the toad
who sings in a scarlet dawn?
We forget it is the whole world, its evolution staggering
under a gravity of shadow and light; but lucky us
holding days like Ball jars, gathering fireflies, night just descending.


blue aisling said…
the rhythm in 'vital ocher line' is perfect. I love the traces of religious images in this poem!

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