Oculus Song

Unbearable months of almost wishing
you could disappear, and then

one day the brush of a small wing;
the lilt of a new voice in your ear.

Indigo shadows and their gradual 
altering. Lunettes of color, tentative  

on the periphery— like vegetation 
coming back after a fire. Or a woman 

with a red coat walking in the fields;
her red umbrella. You know the world

is still a pandemonium, a ship-
wreck, an intubation. A mausoleum

of seemingly incurable slaughter. 
And yet at the edges, a blue ripple 

threads itself like a stitch through
arms of willows, sweetgum, and magnolia. 

At day's end: the light, closing again
but not like a wound; pleating, like a fan.   



 

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