Layers in Dissevered Dimensions
At first he hears the gravel there below
Yet fails to feel it, sandals blocking sense
Like tastes, cold, missing, when the tongue meets snow.
The bitterness of yew in hedge is dense
Inside his nose. Then somehow fragrance felt
Within his brain is allied, ghostly, known
Unknowingly, as if a sorcerer dealt
Sensation through a spell of specter groan.
The haze is more like monastery bell
Interpreted in mind or vesper song
Turned into holy bronze or incense smell
Where wandering singing senses walk along.
The deep-toned lingering of the monk-like bronze
Is more mortality in white mute swans.
~ Phillip Whidden
by phillipw | Jul 13, 2024 | SY |
