Treasure Island

Michael Gessner



Nothing collapses so easily
in the fist than this,
the onion skin that crinkles
like the sound of the word, creation.

It is the twig that bows
in the wind & sweeps over the forearm,
or the peach that brushes
against the peach,

& these are found in pages
as if among a feathery crowd
of angels jostling in awe
toward the next wonder just ahead.

These are the syllables
of nature’s decorations,
the talk of the world
trying to fill us with sense, again.

Submitted: Sunday, December 29, 2013
Edited: Monday, December 30, 2013

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