Lost in a place
where angular words
lodge in my throat,
half–formed thoughts
dust down from their stanzas
into a pile on the page.
A loose thread
of dangling participle
ravels the poem, opening
a door in its wall
where sunlight shifts
over mimosa leaves,
emptying their veins
to the paper.
Patterns of shadow
and light soak in.
I wring out the page,
twist it until magic spills.
Vowels alliterate
from the beaks of doves;
the poem spreads its wings.
OSIRIS 96, 2022
Osiris Poetry 