Black Numbers on the House Of The Holy
Inconsolable sky, all drizzle and fear.
Should I read your tears like Braille?
If somewhere thunder is beating the clouds
into bowls of powder shaped by harm,
is this why lightning prefers the dark,
to make the damage less visible?
I understand the way of rebellion,
choosing not to be fluffy and soft.
Altitude plays a lonely part
in the story of heaven’s gate.
Imagine being remembered as distance,
black numbers on the house of the holy.
No one wants to feel that high,
not even the saddest of souls.
There will be turbulence at this time:
pentecostal clouds made of strangers with suitcases
flying from their seats above Atlanta’s dark hand.
Dark hand waiting to catch, consume. Dark hand
needing more to caress than what the night had surrendered.
From wrist to elbow, shoulder to neck, rivers of rhinestones
flowed past the windows blur of suburban routine, electric
and blazing below.
There will be praying at this time:
flight attendant voices with fairy tale pitch crawling
through speakers down yellow lit isles into the hearts ice cave.
A runway of resentment, where flesh trained to lose everything
precious on eight rubber wheels soon became the terror of a black
trampoline. Dark hand willing to peel the moonlight back
from the sky’s shattered hole. Dark hand watching fingers
take flight before dawn’s bruised, unblessed, benediction.
Daniel Edward Moore’s poems have been published in journals such as: American Literary Review, The Spoon River Poetry Review, River Styx, Rattle, Western Humanities Review, Mid-American Review, Assaracus Review and others. He has poems forthcoming in Atticus Review, Wayne Literary Review, Prairie Winds Literary Journal, Riding Light, Badlands Literary Journal, Broad Street Magazine, Common Ground Review, Glint Literary Journal, and Permafrost Magazine. He lives in Washington on Whidbey Island where he is working on his first book of poems. Visit Daniel at danieledwardmoore.virb.com.