Sunday, September 16, 2012


Blue

Dawn Potter

Once upon a time there is an hour,
rainless, starless. And then
a subtle hand unmasks a claw.
Bone speaks to bone. A cower
roughens a curve; famine gnaws
at tender flanks, grips bone, again,
again, tearing, shredding, once upon a time
sleep pretends to fight, once
an hour shivers into dead rain, dry stars;
into glory, first maculate chime 
of defeat—bruise or savor, a barred
owl’s wail, the shrew that it hunts. 

[forthcoming in Same Old Story (CavanKerry Press, 2014)]