Look—they're turning: how gracefully each
moves, in the surprise of woundedness—and,
where arrow meets flesh, the blood corsaging . . .
Revelation, jackhammers, love, four hooves
in the dirt. How speechless, now. As if always
light must wed the dark, eventually, and the dark
mean silence. I disagree. Touch not the crown— Don't touch me—
New England Review Volume 35, Number 1 / 2014
Volume 35, Number 1 / 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Carl Phillips
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission