Michael Rutherglen
APPALACHIAN SALMACIS
A smalt-clotted, sedgeless depth.
Slap through the surface to surface
tinted by something other
than steady, adusting daylight:
bedrock-solace,
calm beyond storms:
a cold prehensile
as a nymph’s blue limbs.
Flail in to wade out
as you would out of dream,
silted with, grafted to a shade at strata
you had not known you had,
head cloudless, body
tremoring with balm.
TO A DOGSTAR
A fistful of tinder,
a shot glass of sugar
light-sic’d at the center
of a shorn plain.
Or my hands come to flicker
like raw birds before me
in an all-anulling noon,
the day blazed to one
void, the constellation come
down to weld the hours.
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