Lisa Lightsey
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THEN it looks |
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The patroness had come and the crown was watching
without its eyes. The eyes were on the staircase, a bat
flying between the trees. On the feast day, one of the
most elaborate, you could not even find bread. The
bread was at the bottom of a lake, an animal over there
in that cage.
This is intended for the heat of what devotes.
Let's go to the bar and get a beer.
The beer was inside an outrageous man who took to
blows from the prayer. From a sea of humans the crown
is grabbed and thrown. At first it sulks and sulks, then it
carefully looks back at what
it has made holy.
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| SOME translucion |
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The moment the hands midwife a love.
The same life imagines before it had new chickadees to
bear. Back then that specificity had never been tried. Two
people lost their balance from the weight of the look that
said what will light do? What will hands combing upon
the world brush free?
Whatever kicked it wasn't enough prefixing of life to
hearten you on in whispers as first the eyes might.
See–
because if you can, it means you have finally been born.
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| ANY worth |
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The pod protects its seed, the geode gems, the egg, yolk‒
lying in tusks of grass, safe from hands that pluck to sow
and sell to eat. An egg shhs,
walks on tip-toe, hides white on white and when
abused, hard-soft according to time.
The stone rolls in half, the Siamese earth-twin operated
on, no longer conglomerate but related. The ghost-rice
grain, oblong and strange,
keeps shying from its price.
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