By J.J. Tindall
Like a Western Avenue Along Saturn’s Icy Ring
A warm, dry place
here on the frozen edge
of an apparently infinite universe? Really?!
Wait: yes.
A warm, dry place here in America, like.
This kind of thing.
The sharp edge
of the sparkle
on a cold ruby ring,
a small nuclear storm
on the surface
of Jupiter.
That old saw! That’s what I saw
in her tiny hand gesture on the train
earlier this afternoon, like the bright trill
of an antique Persian flute,
or an ice-dove shaped just like one,
floating upwards
along Western Avenue in the sharp, autumn
dusk. It has to be dusk, floating upwards
in the sharp autumn dusk.
Like a light, drowsy dove
floating upwards
in the sharp autumn dusk.
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J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
Posted on November 21, 2012