I’m merely a floater in the eye of God, a flake of his winnowed chaff. A twig from the tree at whose root his ax is laid, if you believe Luke, and I do. I am a wisp of the fog that blinds my world this morning. A drop from a leaking tap. An odd button. A blot.
I’m less than the smallest bone of St. Catherine’s withered fore-finger; in Sienna it’s preserved behind glass and I’m not. I’m a loose tooth. A hesitation of wind. The lost coin never found. A river wrinkle come and gone. An eyelash found by an ant in the dust. A blink.
—Luci Shaw’s new collection of poems, Harvesting Fog, her 30th book, came out in January from Pinyon Publishing.
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