WetIt's astonishing, the slipperiness
Of spirit, how August afternoons
Become January mornings
Clouded so thickly a foot could be a mile,
How it is possible to walk a day
Between moonset and sunrise
Where the spirits live,
Both evil and benevolent, each pushing
An agenda like snake oil salesmen.For soul dwells in places we've never
Seen, like Tuesdays, tomorrows and
Drips from hundred year old pines,
In the intraarticular space between
Cartilage and bursa where the magic
Of movement dwells,
In the moment between breath and words
Where each idea births, or the stretch of
A candle when lit.An ankle is as good as a breast
When you've never seen skin
And dusk seems pale when
Superimposed on midnight
The feeling of wetness between fingertips
Belies something separate gliding
Across the loops, whorls and arches of
Thumb and index finger.The slide of the mind along old paths
Is the same slip into new
And dawn seems pale when
Superimposed on noon
Baby, let's run.
After traveling the far edges of the universe, Jon Silvestri has found home in the mountains of Northern California, where he spends his days chasing beauty and writing poetry.
