PoetryEtc Featured Poet: Mark Weiss   

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So many white birds on that flat blue water.

that very
that piece of water.

No pillow no
familiar place    a little money
to stay alive
for chance.
A thread of chances.

Fat water.

Cold so
cold that the heart
itself as if it
beat in my hand
before it quit.

The small heart,
the frog
pinned to the board.

All the seed of the meadow.

All things that fly
linnet, cicada, grasshopper
that saws air

saws this!

swallows    the temple
exploding at every doorway.

So the narrative is the process of finding the god let me tell
you what I saw there what spider
in the dank
beneath the cracked
pane etched
with dust and the little light
that made it
through so many leaves
this blue darkness
and the reticent spotted bug its web,
that it walks the way a pianist's hand
walks the music, a part
of its body, that
the gestures of its many legs that form fabric
always the same
always the pattern     the light
fractured for it    complex
as the vision of its many eyes, the matrix
of multiple vision. In and out of the light,
the reassuring smells, the
tendrils at the doorway.
It was always moonlight there, it was always
about to happen.

The momentary gods wait
at the corner, and at the corners of days and nights. The momentary gods
are where you find them.

I named the sail
and it carried me.