Clearer than amber gliding over stones
is the sunlight of thought. Quieter than the crisp fiction of windlessness--
Production, consumption--
aren’t you tired of convincing people you’re not trying to convince them of anything?
I am. Soil is necessary. Perhaps we could agree on that—
and stop cupping our hands beneath dry sky as if we knew what we wanted.
A name for what it is that happens in our minds when we’re ecstatic and alone. When
briefly destiny uncries, like someone in a movie weeping backward.
Perhaps God alone can fill the rose of our mind-writhing.
Perhaps we’re trapped innately, gnat-like, in the middle of great vacant signs, or lips.
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Gail Wronsky is the author of ten books of poetry, prose, and translations, including So Quick Bright Things (What Books, 2010), Poems for Infidels (Red Hen Press, 2004), and Dying for Beauty (Copper Canyon Press, 2000). Gail’s poems and essays have appeared in many journals, including Volt, Pool, Runes, Denver Quarterly, Colorado Review, Antioch Review, Boston Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, Santa Monica Review, Laurel Review, Crazyhorse, Burnside Review, Lafovea, and Pistola. Her work has also appeared in anthologies, including Poets Against War (Nation Books), The Poet’s Child (Copper Canyon), A Chorus for Peace (University of Iowa Press) and Grand Passion: The Poetry of Los Angeles and Beyond.
