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.