Salt Lake City, Golden Hour

Salt Lake City, golden hour
windows closing cut the shower
shining past the control tower
smacks against the plane

rejected light forms rivers, pooling
right beneath the engines, cooling
should be warmer, what’s this fooling?
the flight alights in vain

mercy dark, climbing higher
pilot’s got the holy fire
blind but he’s a frequent flier
seeking light left lame

#29 (with you)

bend oh bend my child
hear my will and bow
beneath the clouds of Seattle
for I am with you now

remember who I made you
remember your birth mark
the stamp of love I gave you
the flick’ring crimson spark

find rest in me my child
I’ll hold you in the night
beneath the clouds of Seattle
and watch your dreams alight

Sparks

I just stood up from the table abruptly
after reading some Billy Collins with Bubba,
and the upward/forward motion of my torso
caused me to cough violently. I don’t know why.
Ten seconds or so of the kind of cough that
warms the forehead as you feel blood running
to your face and pressure building between
that forehead and the top of your cranium.
Along with this bizarre sensation came a memory
of Meg from my days at Catholic elementary school.
Meg, an Irish girl, whose cheeks were flushed
with bright crimson sparks of facial fireworks.
She said that these were actually blood vessels
broken by… actually I forget her explanation,
but it made sense to my 10 year old self
who would’ve killed to have some of my own.
For, as I met more Irish people—and descendants
of Irish people—I realized that these cheeks
were more of a defining trait than anything my
Gerwelshwedeslavscotswinglish roots gave me. Continue reading