NOT AS ASCENSION.
by Sarah Burgoyne
“Torn up in the surgery of night. The buttering under of it. Seven
halos away from becoming a sprig of something anointed.
Never too few in the brooding doorframes; the spoken-to
lighting the walls. The corner-drawing minds buttoning silver
horns of ancient wisdom. A voice: Dance with me, future loser,
I love you. Hide under the table, I will call down the Lord
without sulphur. To cast alms over our future mistakes.
It has driven you mad. The left towns. The river. The twisted
ankles of the chosen ones, stunting across your vision. Desirous
to be atop any building, moving moon-dumb into someone
else’s night. You are alone. But it has equated to the community
feeling. Take a harmonica when you go, handsome love. Bid
adieu to the feeling of it. The gold ring of living in it . . . “
Subterranean Blue Poetry