Metaphor turns all
to itself. I am no more
the subject, than I
am the object. Like Delphic
seers speak god’s voice,
the poem moves through me—
changing itself like air
moving slowly across grass.
As a child I’d dangle
my feet in Clark’s creek.
Minnows nibbled my toes
cautiously; I’d sit still
as god listening to prayers
happy in my boredom.
(June 6, 2018)
subtext 