You are the teeth of foggy days,
when life moves in cold motion.
The sharpest point in the eye,
where light exposes the stain
of tryst. The pickpocket of
monkshood seed.
The bleeding heart that got
spring cattle in the lung. The tremble
and stagger of death, livestock
littered like swollen stars,
brown and cream.
Oh, devil, you are not archaic testament
nor pew wrought with blasphemy,
wooden slurs carved in boredom.
Not rosary, preachers’ hands,
bone or altar of Assisi.
Nor brimstone, inferno or
red demons of Cain.
You are under a porch stoop.
In a broken light bulb, the eye
of gutted fish, expelled placenta.
You are everywhere
we are not, anywhere we are.
YOU ARE READING
The Anatomy of Fortune
PoetryMy collection of poetry for the 2013 Atty Awards. Made it to the "Showcase" awards of top 50 collections.