Rick Mullin

Lune

 

Catalysts and clay of the lucent season
cull their ice to sweeten the dead of April.
Cloudforms shift and break into saline spirits
straking the mountain.

Shadows glance. The flight of a nightlag swallow,
sky-to-meadow, crake over drab chimaera,
lineates a channel of sliding bodies
lost in the hemlock.

Spiders tilt and drop into fading darkness.
Eyes elide, unknow what we might remember,
reckon once the loss of a purple crocus.
Foliate amber

cracks to blowing halos of crimson crystal.
Petals burn and flake. And the rumored poets
tie their orchid sacs to a yellow hawthorn
stake in the garden.

 

originally appeared in
Stignatz & The User of Vicenza