by Michael Palmer
What of the wolfhound at full stride?
What of the woman in technical dress
and the amber eye that serves as a feral guide
and witness
to the snowy hive?
What of the singer robed in red
and frozen at mid-song
and the stone, its brokenness,
or the voice off-scene that says,
Note the dragonfly by the iris
but ask no questions of flight,
no questions of iridescence?
All of this
and the faint promise of a sleeve,
the shuttle’s course, the weave.
What of these?
What of the century, did you see it pass?
What of the wolfhound at your back?
Copyright ©:
Michael Palmer
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