O
oven-mitts for Hell’s smoldering gates,
help me grab the bars and throw them
open.
I don’t know if I’m in or out, but
let me through
when the fire spreads. If the dust at my feet
is the ashes of heaven, I’m
going to the other side.
O
conduit for the ubiquitous flux of digital current,
give me a signal. Let smart phones
everywhere sing,
that’s a fly circuit you’re crowdsourcing
on,
brother. We’ll identify the
transit of a new exoplanet
and scan its spectrum for
sand.
O
false augmentation under the milk of human kindness,
how can the scar of your
insertion improve
the site of the body’s first food &
mouth’s first kiss?
What mad man of materials
science
replaced flesh with a cold bag of
gel?
O
ceramic plate serving the Earth’s finest crust,
out of the volcano with the stench
of brimstone,
out of the kiln, shaped by
hands and a wheel,
from fine ash to pliable clay,
site of so many
thousand meals.
O
ornamental jug of hand-blown glass,
we wonder at your prismatic museum
colors
and, from your gas-fired
industrial kin,
we drink the finest scotch, the driest
wine,
the purest water, the
last dregs.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
Stephen Brockwell in his element!
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