the tongue of night
speaks blue to
every king and vagrant
coasting albatross currents
gathering
for late boughts
with rivermen
or riding
nameless rails
they soar
on wings of
burlap and bailing wire
rattling like
dead leaves
as crows
orbiting the moon
break into
its furnace room
and douse the flames
with mouthfulls of bathwater
and the blind
are left
to hitch for morning
with their thumbs
aimed towards
the burning fuse
of the east
"the tongue of night
speaks blue to
every king and vagrant..."
"and the blind
are left
to hitch for morning
with their thumbs
aimed towards
the burning fuse
of the east."
The scenes stitched into your words are alive and vibrant; swinging nimbly down their lines in proverbial, metaphorical loops.
For me they are like shifting dreams - I try to grasp the meaning of one as another image beckons, I roam through a collage of impression.
And they're as eerie as dejavu moments evoked from these haunting lodestones; 'night', 'gathering', 'currents', 'moon', 'crow', 'flames', 'dead', 'left', 'burning', 'fuse'.
But how I love the way this poem found its beginning and end; running through from the unspoken despair of the dark to a silent longing call to the sun.
I enjoyed reading this, as I did 'scent and safety'; exquisite fabric woven by a skillful and precise mind.
Brandon York is an incorrigible wanderlust, and 'jack of many trades', who enjoys climbing everything, travel, and has meditated since the age of 4. The sensory, the tactile, and the fringe inspire .. more..