Jan/Feb 2002 Poetry

Two Poems

by Anthony Stephens


Getting Home

The sun fires light into
the retina of my eyes.

It coerces me to see
what is no longer there,

pressing against memories
I've buried light years away.

When the darkness
has triumphed as usual

and the curve into you
is just ahead,

I hear the light crying
at the edge of the universe.


The Field

Standing like stickmen drawn
uncomplicated as a grain,
we drain what energy is left.
Black holes are a law here too
in the center of life at autumn's end.
Breezes sharpen their tones
across this plowing for
the winter's coming howls.
Clods strewn like stars
across the blind ground
prophesy a life after ice.
We are stubble standing spared
paralyzed by the terror of field mice
awakened to a world with no sky
and the silent hum of a hawk on the wing,
the only god they ever knew.


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