Ask if the flaming sword is the axis.
Ask if toil means the seasons.
Keatsian envy of the backs of birds.
The spires of churches and all the people.
Out to the horizon: trees!
Like the wood grain of the standing tree means
paper, houses. Under my hand. Under
my feet, dirt. Metal. The city I rise
into, look out from and understand
like the spectre of the blackbird
in Stevens and his oceans
all horizon, for which we have no word.
A bit of sky becomes wind,
while I lie here bridling the image of myself in God:
my power that obliterates.
Yvette Thomas received her MFA from Columbia College Chicago. Her work has appeared in Columbia Poetry Review and other notable literary magazines. She currently resides in Philadelphia.
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