The Pulpit

The Pulpit
 
There is a shape
in the stomach
when a body falls
off the end of the watery world.
A shape to the way it swims back up
toward distorted light.
Mother, father,
pack up their past
for the future in this way.
A leaf falls.
Moss twirls on stone.
Stars reel apart.
Soup stirs.
Hope fades.
Bees crawl down to their queen
this way.
 
Sherry Robbins, from Or, the Whale, BlazeVOX [books]

Category: Poems, Publications, series    

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