Kameron Ray Morton

after Veronika Dianišková

Pull on the voice
of fire
that, for any other,
amounts to zen tchotchkes.
Ethereal deluges serve an edge of striking
glass that mauls an object
into a sea
of clumps.

There, paddling past the edge, a character.
There, a sinful muse set to arise. Wrong,
burning. Wrong,
breathing.
There she stands, aged, over the ocean,
appears as a bowing girl, murmurs,
cajoles, come with me,
victory,
come back to me.
Pass the jewels, gems
cracked on living rock.

---

This poem originally appeared in the print magazine Western Humanities Review.

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