Poetry

Monica Ferrell

 
There is nothing beautiful here
However I may want it. I canít
Spin a crystal palace of this thin air,
Weave a darkness plush as molefur with my tongue
However I want. Yet I am not alone
In these alleys of vowels, which comfort me
As the single living nun of a convent
Is comforted by the walls of that catacomb
She walks at night, lit by her own moving candle.
I am not afraid of mirrors or the future
—Or even you, lovers, wandering cow-fat
And rutting in the gardens of this earthly verge
Where I too trod, a sunspot, parasol-shaded,
Kin to the trees, the bees, the color green.
 
Copyright © 2013 by Monica Ferrell. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on May 27, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Poems by This Author

Anatomy by Monica Ferrell
Man shaped out of mud
Rime Riche by Monica Ferrell
You need me like ice needs the mountain


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