Prophesy
Who needs magic letter-counting
or a network of psychic friends
when the last poem I wrote
was about seeing the face of God
in the rind of an orange I had forgotten
I’d left in a desk drawer the day before?
Who needs magic letter-counting
or a network of psychic friends
when the last poem I wrote
was about seeing the face of God
in the rind of an orange I had forgotten
I’d left in a desk drawer the day before?
Sliding forward, upward pucker
soft and fresh, pore
to first slick of spring dew.
An ancient etymology.
Syllables underfoot
unfolding across continents,
thousand-year scroll unscraped,
each overwritten character
layering through, spelling new words
with old ink,
Ten days a wisp of smoke
from one ancestral strum to the next
distant guitar on the horizon
stark like a city sunset.
A poem that is great fun!
Full title: A Friend Tries to Quit Smoking While Serving on a Faith and Practice Revision Committee