Glass Of Darkness
I see the tall glass of darkness
putting out a pot of cinders and ash
where too many cooks have spoiled
the serenade, sweet high song
of sun's guilt evening
to the kicking horse
that must be shot
before it can be free.
I sing along, blind in
this bare attic, but every note
that jumps in my throat
lies, dropping bloodless on the
broken map where cities blur
like stars whose cream light curdles
in a dead sky of greysmoke ghosts;
where nothing is ever free.
But I can't stop.
They say every skull will sing
if the wind blows
just right.
January 2025
posted for Word Garden Word List
Images:San Francisco, 1906 post-earthquake © The Atlantic, archives
The Penitent Magdelen ca 1640, Georges De La Tour Public Domain
