THE BONES
The maze of bones sutured by the dark
Call of the glass frame—currents shock
The wish, the fluorescence. Pour a glass
Of God, drown eternity in your throat.
Then feel as it disappears. As it rushes
Through you, into the brittle of your
Fingernail. Then dream of moonrise.
Of the pool lit by space. Of the planets
Circling the trees. Their leaves erupting
Into nothing; downpour—scythe breeze.
Highway sprinkled with light. Your body
Being there. Really, really being there.
Author’s Bio
Brennan Sprague is a poet whose work has appeared in Afternoon Visitor, Schlag Magazine, Glass Poetry, Jet Fuel Review, Barren Magazine, and The Adroit Journal, among others. He resides in Rochester, NY.
