by J. Michael Wahlgren
Peter opened the book: a little city
was built inside, a way to see through
this gossip, the drinking of dipper to dipper.
But I don’t believe in fortune.
And then, in a moment of silence, staring
back at him from the binding,
was the deepest blue of ocean waiting to be wet.
We’re right behind you: a halo of winters.
We were leaving Geneva: a home green, a little
machina where someone sputtered out; sputtered out
words & it sounded clever.
No lip. No lip. Don’t you dare give me lip, tonight.
The music begins the rectory now: a mere
baptism of light, from one heavenly
triad to another someone.
Peter flipped the page: a little lamp as given name.
And somehow the narration disappears,
like a star in a black cloud, waiting
to orbit a finger in gold, a ring, a ring, crossing vows.
But I don’t believe in fortune.
