“Best of Poetry”: Femured Dreams
The intensest light of reason and revelation
combined, can not shed such blazonings upon
the deeper truths of man, as will sometimes
proceed from his own profoundest gloom.
—Herman Melville, Pierre: or, The Ambiguities, Book IX. (1852)
The nimbostratus moth wings out west
have become the undulating Rorschach test
I’ve expected for months. It’s hard to tell where it all
begins—where that exam ends. I know Fall
like dreamers know the ocean floor
peace which accompanies the aquamarine torpor
of the Kraken’s embrace—like the stray dog
seeks the burlap security in a hollow log
after a morning of fruitless looting. The hound knows:
ear-cocked with the hope of a far out howl; nose
to the ground as he cuts across the dead bladed plain
of this frost peppered farm. He returns to the remains
of his hermetic campsite hidden in a wooded nook,
and to the comfort of that aforementioned oak.
Our pup props his jaw upon his paws and joins the dreamers
—drifting off beside the green-glow warmth of his fire made of femurs.