Gris-Gris, an online journal of literature, culture & the arts

Besides

by Peter Cooley

 

there’s never-heaven always in my hand
reminding me my fingers have no grip
on Heaven ever, coming through the trees—

that kind of fastening the morning holds
on everything the sun allows to pass
under surveillance, possession, loss, loss, loss…

Once I thought I was here to name the stars.
Wasn’t that yesterday? But now I know
in this blue moment I’ll find everything.

I could invent the jaybird in my yard
but he is singing. That’s how I fly from here—
already he is more than I can bear,

his music tearing me up inside till I die,
rise, die, rise, die. This is just metaphor.
And this: I’m resurrected every day.