Blow on the stones,
clap wood and flint
to parry cold and
bleakest night; plant
decoys before sprinting
off with real fire—

What boldened rush,
what streak through
burning brush? A duty
bidden by the moon:
to steal the secret
of the buckle’s gleam—

O birdling, o almost
completely fledged,
the branch on which you
teeter is alight: come
now to bridge the air,
no vertigo or fear—


In response to Via Negativa: Buckles to my shoes and small stone (210).

4 Replies to “Relay”

  1. I love this: the tautness of the language, the controlled energy, the empathy, the story full of holes – like the fabric of a dream that is falling apart even as you scribble it on waking.

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