Sunday, May 22, 2011

The moment

Night comes to this
snowy, volcanic land in a rush
of peach and molten reds.

Bjork has sat up
so many nights
like this one.
Her gaze never changes,
never flickers,
or wavers in intensity.
Two long and slender
fingers hold a cigarette
that burns without a care
for itself at all;
the singer is as untense as
a flowering orchid when,
suspended momentarily
in the light of dawn,
it blushes and opens up,
stretching large
and lazily.
She flicks the ash
into the ashtray and slowly reclines,
putting her feet up.
The way the burn lingers
in her mind,
an ocean apart or
long rangy mountains
couldn't deter her
in her mental ambulations.

She was thinking of science,
its swarming dragonflies
abuzz with knowing;
and of religion,
which seemed to her almost
nuclear in its unending
eruption, description
of ecstatic life;
sweltering in her mind.
She inched slowly, cautiously
toward a personal
reconciliation of the two
things.

The lights of the stereo
blink and beckon
her to bed.
She slips into slumber
as softly as
an elephant comes tumbling to the ground,
raising a great cloud of dust
up toward the trees. 


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