We wake in scenes that tell us
what we dreamed. Like Pilon's
warm gisants, my head turned
toward yours as if to close a space.
Your pulse oddly restored
in a sculptor's bloc. Nude
and appointed to reflect a light,
to make a chapel out of earth's
casualties. And then, inevitable
as the breath we have to take, the choice
we're granted in this early hour -
the brackish call of migratory waterfowl
or art's stony appeal: sealed
in a hall as statues of our decay
doomed, yet attached
in a docket of holy days.
Copyright © 2005 M. B. McLatchey All rights reserved.
Published in DMQ Review, Summer 2006.
Original version published here.