Issue Three

Spring 2012

 

Twenty-seven



I obsess in strange burrowed ways,
words springboard, collide—
I hear twenty-seven pages and think:
twenty-seven is also this cycle-day.
I want it to slip and pass,
I want it to forget itself
as I have forgotten the life dominated
by numbers, measuring of days.
Months cease to be calendar pages
but divided rotations, like a dishwasher,
the rhythmic chug-chug in the night,
the light above the sink the only one left on.
The sun lowered hours ago, and days
fight with days’ chronology, my moon
not howled at, merely sniffed, scorned
or curious, earthbound mutation,
shuttles cast about among the stars.

 

_____________________

 

Molly Sutton Kiefer

red fractal