The Sorcerer
There he stood
God’s own lost soul
As if already dead
To every meaningful passion
He ever had
Yet chanting
He Carries forward
Even after a surrender to suffering
Had broken glass
And stilled the current
That runs under
This scarecrow.
I am gutted like a trout
Headless on the cleaning table
Vitals thrown to the gulls.
In the tidal pool
Swirling at his feet
The bugs breed
In the broken ribs
Of a star
Leaking juices that sizzle
As they touch down.
My insides are out
So that everyone can see
The storms in me.
Debussy is the only cure
Magically cooling the brain
With creamy nocturnes
Under evening’s copper
Bottomed clouds.
My Scales drop to the depths
Of the James River
My once beautiful armor
Alternately flashing in the mud.
Find your way
To a quiet cafe.
It is an act of mundane sorcery
To be in compassion’s quiet cove.
Forgiving the living
Is a kind of immortality.
Joshua Kight 7/1/18
Feature photo – Thomas R. Fletcher