- after Odilon Redon, "The Black Sun" (c. 1900) Blood too thin, too loose as a child, you stand in the heat and blanch then pale. A garland of veins flaps inside its bell jar, spurting blossoms with each faint tap. Rapture is not what you think it is— not the quick explosion or pumping in air; not the deer and its trembling flanks before the headlights' glare. Beware the dark gleam between trees and the diaphragm of night. Through the day, pilea hold parasols out to catch any dappled light. You remember being told: the only way to look at anything that burns itself so deeply is to learn how to let its smaller constellations pass lightly through your hands.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.