Poetry Archive

I Feed My Voice Shards of Glass


I feed my voice
shards of glass
gray gutted tires
steel veins splayed
through split rubber
blades of grass
bent and broken
an ear torn from a doll
grains of sand
stuck to salty skin
dreams as cleaved
and laconic as a Klee
or Kandinsky—
and clouds piercing
the blue above me
tendrils of white
trailing to the horizon
like heaven’s Morse code.

My voice responds with
struggling out
of its chrysalis
spinning in ill-formed lines
and spindly cadence
lurching now and then
in a fit to find
form and rhythm
to coax meaning
from irony and
to find nourishment
in the dazzling light
and breath of dawn
and in the dance
of multihued wings
fluttering with
growing certainty
toward the sun.

Then it leaps from
the white page
transcending the
bonds of gravity
heels and toes
arcing in resplendent
pitch and poise
arms hands and fingers
held like feathered wings
suspended for an
impossible moment
in the space
of the imagination
touching finally touching
on one toe
the landing held
as though motion
had slurred and
then frozen
in an exquisite
state of

              Terry Bacon


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Email: terry@terryrbacon.com
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