There is something about the blood in a sunset
that answers no questions;
the tarnished veil of a halo refers us
to a dream we never had;
and whatever wakes in us
when the unseen loon calls
offers no consolation.
Can I speak of the heart here,
when nothing speaks to it?
Can the night&rsquo;s brush uncover crystals of longing,
that master moon hides and rocks in the beech?
Given such suspicion,
it is too early to submit to the darkness.
You must commit yourself to the light&rsquo;s weave,
the distant clarity of a promise you may have
&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; misunderstood.



Go on;
the sunset&rsquo;s veronica&rsquo;d blood
promises consonance.
You will learn the veils&rsquo;s appeal to the light in you.


Veil, I

Benjamin Banneker Helps to Build a City

Benjamin Banneker Sends His “Almanac” to Thomas Jefferson

Boleros 14

Desire’s Persistence

Equation Two

Homecoming

Journey to the Place of Ghosts

Light's Interrupted Amplitude

Love in the Weather’s Bells

Jay Wright

Heaven's Throat