“If I had stayed to strike the match ends of stars in poetry’s cave / instead of trying to break the worst dark night over my knees, / you might have had your poet now, someone who’d weave / a blanket against the cold, who’d bury every grave inside a grave. / If I had stayed to echo each fist of smoke, to work the soul’s lathe / and shape a world you already knew by rote, […], / I’d never know to cut the twisted vines from your heart’s withered trees, / to spread my wings above your fire, or pull the dagger from the Milky Way.”— Richard Jackson, from “The Cave,” Broken Horizons (Press 53, 2018)
Finally succumbed to posting art here. So. One piece?
