HAND-PICKED IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
A ballroom built of chalices & eagles.
You arrive as they’re changing the candles
My negotiations with their gravity wells
are intricate as a cello
I don’t know how to play
but love to touch. Oil on my fingers
I am learning unfurls a mask
across a canyon. Down in the wash,
pulse in the ash. To the east & west,
diamond fields, a mist like a snake king
some hero has vanquished imperfectly.
I love things that reform
less than those that shatter.
A white whale piñata sluggered & gushing
A rosary bead of boxwood
in which the tiny faithful
stand on their lions
& offer their microscopic
them off & they’re yours.
W.M. Lobko’s poems, interviews, & reviews have appeared in journals such as Hunger Mountain, Kenyon Review, Boston Review, & The Paris-American. Current work appears in Seneca Review & The Literary Review. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, & was a semi-finalist for the 92Y / Boston Review “Discovery” Prize. He is a Founding Editor of TUBA, a new review of poetry & art.