by Bill Currey

who is it gathers these words
these images loosened in a wind
wheeling around a hollow—

nothing gathered, nothing known
white ash and salt dust
held between the fingers

the taste of salt
and light on my tongue—
a bleached door opens

in the fog a spiralling staircase
rises into the sun, a flock of gulls
lifts in a rush of wings, a chaos

of bright feathers whirling
in a white wind
an exaltation of wings

a trembling of cries,
lightfall collapsing into the wreckage
of the sun—

I listen here for each to speak
where each shines within itself
where the tide water unfolds

white lace across the sand
and I would write in the book of light
open in my hands I would write

the song that falls between my words.


About the Author:

Bill Currey lives in Portland, Oregon, where he has retired after working forty years in ‘the red dust of business’. He is now working to give song to the mystical fact that the world simply is.

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