Lyric maneuvers through a narrow space,
a blade of light squeezed under a dark door,
hence more condensed
(less being more):
a distillation of the day’s events,
white underbelly weirdly gemmed with dream.
But must it not also
be thinner and thus slip
the more adroitly through the haze of sleep,
time’s keyhole? Molten gold,
the little knife of light
stabbing the dark night.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
The Fraying Fabric of the Church of England
St. Paul’s Cathedral has come up with a novel way to fill the pews: It is becoming…
Talkin’ God and Football
Paul Finebaum is known as “the mouth of the South,” but he does a lot of listening.…
Letters—October 2026
I’m grateful for Stephan Pax Leonard’s essay on his conversion to Orthodoxy (“Why I Became Orthodox,” June/July…
