JO THORPE
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Remain in Light
How this bright world will shift
as if gripped at the root by some coil of intent
so a shudder is felt. It can happen like this
between cutting the bark from a field pumpkin –
that horn-grey shield –
and washing the knife
the day just gone as expansive as Mahler,
the heady swell and bloom of it
but your voice on the phone now
stretched as any wire
or risk
and newly thinned
as if skating over a hole in the steadiness
the kind that is capable of filleting a future.
You are talking then not talking
my hands unable to dismantle even bread.
It’s here I look up
and see what surely blessing feels like –
this sky that over the rim of hills is pure gold
and luminous. This sky that over the rim of hills
is pure gold,
and luminous.
