Monday, February 16, 2009


In the stillest house it startles
to see the curtains move above
the radiator, stirred by unseen
fountains, unseen drifts from warmed sweet
metal, showing the air alive
and rising in an oracle,
the lift within each calorie
and molecule, each element,
the fabric troubled by ghosts of
excitement so even emptiness
when touched by heat or pain becomes
breath, becomes aspiration to
convey across the difference change,
the clear trembling flower of haunt.

:: Robert Morgan, Wild Peavines (Gnomon Press, 1996)

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