A Poem By Luke McMullan
Dawn, Vision
Speechless and confronting. My
sight, unowned and held
with that fabric, dimensional pin-hook
in the wall, up against,
pressing its upholstered back,
and back, and my sight
pressing into the focal hook
the ploy of apprehension unheld
by strained, inaudible screech.
(What) can a tongue see
or twist in the endless
photon storm?
O starlight receding.
O dark, leathern quilt.
O pin-hooks.
