The city was New York.
The time was 2:33 am.
One could not see the sun.
The season was summer.
The temperature was 71°F.
It was not raining.
The time was 2:33 am.
One could not see the sun.
The season was summer.
The temperature was 71°F.
It was not raining.
Oracle
Deborah J. Shore
The pinna swirls from helix
to concha—the tidal pool,
the inward curl of a shell
in which (hand cupping auricle)
breakers of the sapphire sea
can be heard, pulse
of the kin-dom world
with its unending Dawn
and perpetual gold dust of constellations
turned to sand. The echo and slosh
of my own salty waters
and the cliffside freshwater fall,
which plunges, defiant, straight into loss,
fill that expanse of opposite ocean up.
A seed had buzzed at bright noon
in the unshielded eyes of childhood,
repeating, fantastic, behind troubled lids
with bold black-set colors and distorted images.
It’s now grown into the smooth and solid
mango-bark of a rainbow eucalyptus,
into the aurora’s magnet,
and into the rugosa rose, baby blue eyes,
and beach aster surround,
haunt of the joyful pollinator
who spirals up and dips, whose surname
was Sorrow, whose sobriquet is Sage,
and whose given name folds,
fetal, around future space.