What we carry is less than air
as if a stone could slip its verb
untangle its object and free fall
upward in lucent afternoon sky
where, among the cumuli of misty
structures, a rising shape unveils its
aureole to reveal the palest moon.
Yet, we have lost the art of gravity
how words edge a breath to facet
shapes deep in vaults of opaque air
flickering a nerve in stone to jolt
a figure awake in shivering reality.
As if, in the stone yard of angels
I hear wings groan in brut wind.
September 2018
Metamorphosis
By Gershon Maller