Friday, December 8, 2017

Thomas is Not.

He is not a far mountain
Hidden by some congealing
Inkiness -- a fog, no, he is not.

He is not a setting star
That rests in the atmosphere, boiling
He boils -- but set, he does not.

He is not a child's glowstick cracked
Glow, by some measure, against
The pale night -- but pale, he does not.

And by that glowstick, he does not fade
Nor does he sit at the bottom of pools
And shimmer -- but stick, yes, he sticks.

Like a cat's tongue on the flesh of Earth
The drift, papery ash in the child's hair
And glows --  yes! of embers he stole.

A canary cries, but he does not sing
He howls, screaming in forgotten canyons
Oh, Thomas! -- but forgotten, no, he is not.

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