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In cold
spring air the
white wisp-
visible
breath of
a blackbird
singing—
we don’t know
to un-
wrap these blind-
folds we
keep thinking
we are
seeing through
From Creatures of a Day by Reginald Gibbons. Copyright © 2008 by Reginald Gibbons. Reprinted by permission of LSU Press. All rights reserved.
To the futile sound
of midnight church bells,
out back someone is
rinsing her thoughts in
unfathomable
universal sky—
a cold faint glowing.
As always stars are
white as salt on the
blade of an old axe.
The rain-barrel’s full,
there’s ice in its mouth.
Smash the ice—comets
and stars melt away
like salt, the water
darkens and the earth
on which the barrel
stands is transparent
underfoot, and there
too are galaxies,
ghost-pale and roaring
silently in the