1.
Her naked back,
silhouetted in the darkness,
is relaxed.
2.
An odd shape,
pools of white
reflect my image, my stare.
3.
Surrounded by the ashen forest,
a clear meadow
shines in the moonlight.
4.
The bright light
blinds me momentarily,
for I need to stare,
but remain in the shadow.
5.
Shielding the delicate,
it is powerful
and makes her strong.
6.
Sloping toward the shades of gray,
I cannot tell which side is up,
or where to begin searching.
7.
I am intimidated by the sheer
face of the cold slope.
I begin my climb,
but cannot finish.
8.
Sliding down her spine,
I cannot control
my movements.
9.
Heat radiates
and she begins
to glow.
10.
The ridges
of her vertebrae
are stacked like building blocks.
I want to play.
11.
Still and cold
her stone
collects snow in patterns.
12.
Water running
over her shoulders
collects at the nape.
1 comment:
I recently reread Wallace Stevens', “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” from The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens. I have always liked how Stevens' blackbird is both alive and not; real and not. I wanted to try something like it, so I wrote this poem, creating twelve short observations.
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