Photo by Click and Learn Photography on Unsplash
Infinite mystery borne with nightly
cold reflections of stress on the alpha
I swell with locusts in vague pines—
no love-gnosis nor phrase to exalt her—
I will glass brave assaults by dying hands
I blue cross fold under thorns a repose
of streams nestled in I troughs beaming sand
like stars like stops like starts like stars wind-blown
from rivers in I gloom like silent monks
amused by theft and plays of light the flame
so I slosh in smoke and ash make tents
in ports across the meta-terrain
In time, the body dreams I come together,
singing as white trees blaze in December.
C.J. Weeks' poetry can be found in the many notebooks that clutter his desk and shelves. His poems often inhabit a mood of uncertainty, a space of intellectual anxiety, in which thought attempts to reckon with its limits, and the self revels in its contradictions. He is a substitute teacher in Bedford, Virginia.