A Poem by Stephen Mead

For bristles you could use dune grass, dried
pine needles, eucalyptus leaves,.
For bristles you could use anything,
your fingers themselves petals, expressive
grace & falling light…
It caught dusk & a lurid gleaming pool hall.
Then there’s the stars erupting across canvasses,
a bridge, a cypress, divine mad illumination
recorded in a portrait by your candle-brimming
hat. Glory
burns, is a toll taking creativity to the gaze
of some prostitute, sea captain, a mere bed post
& chair, the fire scratched & instilled even amid
windows, an asylum’s: barred.
How did conversion sneak in, a church seen
at sun down, soothing, lush, but
intense simultaneously?
Was it too much—
This grasp, these visions, a harbinger,
compounded, grounded out, all of it,
in that last frenzied soul cry of a sky & field

filled with crows

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