The mind is its own place
  Jessica Van de Kemp

Yellow ring of lightning around your pupils, your grey eyes like a storm moon -
something flashes behind them, like a dark thought, like a bold Framboise

decanted, and the cars idle in the street. We walk until we reach the light
of the lake, until we can do nothing but stand like pilgrims beneath the sleek

bed of Jupiter; there are swans at our feet. Your pocket-watch marks the
ascension of Vela and Volans. You tell me that your ancestors bore hlud and hari,

that you were named Chlodochar after your father and his father before him. You tell me
the secret I want to know and summon the dead from their graves. I call you Prospero

when the hush of nautical dusk descends and the shadows glissando after the sun.
There is room enough for a silkworm moth to hover in the air between us, an inch or so

of cosmos between our shoulders. You crib lines from Horace: carpe diem,
quam minimum credula postero. Seize the day, trusting little in tomorrow.

I cannot tell if you were born a god or if some suffering struck you in the deep -
if someone whispered softly to you and you emerged from the chrysalis a Renaissance man.

You don’t require prayers. You’re a red fox. You live down in a den in the old roots of a heart.

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