Ucd Belfield Metaphysical Poem by Kevin Kiely

The sky is a mere exhibition in pools of rain until the sun
unfolds the froth of clouds casting off cosmic oceans
of light and without horizon limitless, where there is silence

No sense and white grains sifting infinitesimally tiny
winds of light, fine salt of light that does not blind the eyes
because seeing is seeing more than ever in distance

If not forever, endless in dimensions beyond comprehension
there is no heat or sound. Silence: the obverse of the world.
Where is this zone? The return, with tactile contact at the railings

The overpass balcony: noise of cars and trucks below—
a wet ash twig studded with black seeds, ivory bark in
ordinary sunlight: leaf-bows, lettuce green, edible in beauty

The unread gashes on the bark, this key-twig to re-open saturday
pulp crumbs blow along the beaches of the world
forming in books and dissolving in dust and into books again

So much missing prosaic terza rima sentinel of the shelves
there is not a bright grain on the photocopy, metaphors will fit
not fit, lame language, scratches of pen on train tickets, words on the dull

White page desktop from pressed keys: through a portal of silver
fleece the aircraft banks to climb stairs of clouds, levels off—
the horizon's walls are lit with streams of leaking light

The jolt that suggests speed beyond dials. The ache of longing:
take me away finally from all this, take me home from each
day's lost and found, the sulphur of solitude

The wealth of her mirrored who heals the naked chaos.
Anyone will tell you there is the trouble with Medusa,
and Medea's hatred is not exceptional. The quest for Moneta

is a path through fear between the flint of conflict
and the night of eureka. Behind the hours is essential cold
the candle looks back to centuries, the flame makes the room a cave

These books speak scenes of innocent love with new dialogue in dreams