by Stephen Sturgeon
A man tracked a curtain rod that blazed through a forest,
and as he furiously traveled, with him there went
the hair of Jesus’ head inching along,
a river of skulls a black girl swam,
bells in the sun at cascade and ring,
tallow swept up from a fast-burning palm,
Britain’s crown jewels stitching one hundred shirt collars,
moldering tree stumps that suckled a boy,
philosophical plants strapped under root cellars,
our dream’s last rest batted to scraps as a toy,
Magdalene’s glance at the petulant sky,
communities of mirrors, flush in séance,
blacksmiths joining the ends of barn hay,
the trial of youth hidden under long pants,
Lucifer’s fingers on the strings of our harm,
conciliatory pause adjudicating blame,
and the mane of the lion flashing after the lamb,
however the night was calm.
However the night was, the night was calm
