Carl Phillips




Through An Opening

 

It was as if they'd stepped into the head
of a wind god,
                           and gotten trapped there and,
within captivity, made a space they could

sometimes recognize. Soon it looked
like home: chicken hawk; first stars;
a golden steeple. . .  Almost, they could believe
each word of it,

                               the wordless parts also,
the particular riot—and beauty, for they did
admit as much—of a field on fire, the wind
tumbling through the god's hair, here and

there lifting it—so a kind of life, still—
They would make
                                    a music of it. Singing
Hush now—why not hush? You're mine, coyote.



* * *

Carl Phillips' poem originally appeared in A Public Space.
Reprinted with the permission of the author.
All Rights Reserved.
 
 

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