mimicking the landscape of the mind or
at least that’s what Jackson Pollock does with
your sundress floating in the river’s water
it’s taken away in an instant and
this is what is meant by “and they were naked
and felt no shame” smelling of local
rain and acrylic paint and sweat like
Koch’s “fresh air you are an art student” which
really means that you are a theologian
a boat maker a naked lover
a bird made of popsicle sticks that you
yourself licked though with more compassion in
your eyes than sensuality because
this you said is the true nature of form
moments when G-d seems hollow she’s a bowl
of caesuras between the shifting snow
flakes and flakes off the monochrome face
(choral music’s evidence of silence)
she allows some snow to gather in her hair
standing there below glass-bulbed Christmas lights
the moon on fire the bottom of the flame
becoming bluer and colder inverting
the expected is quoted through winter
in the language of a small bird’s footprints
leading us closer to frozen forests
under the stars scars like wounded spirits
the landscape more naked than ever dressed
Anthony Opal lives near Chicago and edits The Economy. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Poetry, Boston Review, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere. To read more, visit www.anthonyopal.com.