Home / Joshua Alan Sturgill
Passing the inked, the pressed,
the mummified, arrive at
the spoken — each word a root of permanence
grasping a dark
unfurnished depth
Or
at intuition’s conquered ground, I make
my first sword-thrust,
my first leap
out of bewilderment
into probability
Or
There, disclosing the
ring of sight’s eye,
kneels to propose marriage
to Here, whose yes
stains the winter air chartreuse
and pale rose
While
beneath the broad canopy
of an ancient holly tree,
music from a mountain stream rises
to laud the adder
who guards the sleeping dove
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