breathhelix (1)

 

across the windsward of a grey-black city,

no rivers hang their stars tonight.

only autumn in the alleygarden, yet ice

distils its darker moments

in transilient shadows.

branches, swept bare and bleak,

quaver abovewhere weeds lunge coldly

near earthquiet roots.

 

within a lighted window, a boy

scrapes white wax from candlesticks

while his mother’s fingers dip

into sky for purple stones. elsewhere,

on metallic stairs, anxious shoes

climb toward lovers, their hands

burning in yellow flowers,

and below, in darkling rooms, lips

embalm young eyes, innocent spheres

no less wet for their closing.

 

above the frozen silence, the walker looks up.

night sends him its crystal picture:

“thaw-into-slowness,” the image says.

 

how long forgotten, he wonders, simplicity

that settles our hearts, this quiet

caesura, ceasing us, the bright hiatus that

pauses our cities, restoring life

by slow lapse into empty calmness?

 

then, to his ears, a new voice: an aria,

tinnient on the glassdeep air,

a voice that echoes the simple birthsleepsigh

of our most peaceful stars.

 

— J.C.S.