Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2014  Vol. 13  No. 1
an online journal of literature and the arts
 print preview

Dream of the Morning Before It Split Open

I almost see your thumb
following the groove
like a river on an atlas.
Other men are peering from the slits

of tents as though the ash
light fixed them: silver
eyes opening in a pan of liquid.
What will you see

from your bottom bulb of glass?
The warp of August air
metalling the water?
Your name—like a father—calls you

from the engine. Oh. Step under
the wing: only a shadow blade.  end  

return to top