Embrace by Janie StapletonPoecology
Issue 5

G.C. Waldrep


In the alveoli of the lungs
the sheep of the blood graze.
They cast no shadows.

Compass me, shearsman.

I am a worn chord,
I hold the slivering gneiss
in my free hand.        I said,
Let us go together
into the earth’s debt.

In the fields of the wood
I parted with
my breath’s gold substance,

its circular firmament,
frailer musk of gist
and clef. The russeting
orchards, vast
pasturages of woundlight—

Compass me, shearsman.
Your voice
is all I will ever know

of the blade
and its luminous amnesty.