photo by Michael Bowman (unsplash)
By Chelsea Creek
Airborne jet of yellow . over the Mystic River. Some ones seem carmine the ones without any roar. Are they captives of some lesser sun? They’re in a song we sang when we were still young. On a downtown landscape sometimes a blue building or an old crumbling tower. You're the defeated artist who’s in search of a cure. I come to join recklessly your cause at its junction. I don’t want to stumble divided and conquered. I seek your recognition as someone who pilfers the coffers of Christians. Thirst For Brown Water There’s healthy sense in absence of intention. These surfaces break quick time. This pool soon grows cold swimming within a frame It’s seen in bad dreams but its contours altered to mute heckling within. Midwinter Children They tell their story, of restless swallows. In a random moment, wearing rough haloes. They felt oddly, about their gods. Counting on the arrival Morning of the 27th Your shape tended to render sameness to all your moods all your darkness. You made sure you spent time putting me at ease. In a few stars, I bear witness. past the minaret, Those past the dome, ones past the minaret. A satyr shadowed, one half is divine, another half is odd among gods. Gods worshipped older, often naive, rooted in rudeness. Bright ones remark, there's always a sky playful each morning. Only one sky, but frozen, issuing what came before to take liberty with virtue.