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
Equipping the Church for the IVF Era
When Anna, a pianist at her local church, began to show the unmistakable signs of pregnancy, her…
The Fourth Watch
In this episode, James F. Keating joins R. R. Reno on The Editor’s Desk to talk about…
Christianity Is Not a Tool
On today’s episode, writer Kelly Chapman joins Virginia and Germán. According to the discourse, it’s fashionable to…
