Bob Sykora — The Monarch Review
Oma at Night – Bob Sykora
Wednesday, February 25, 2015 10:27 — 0 Comments
Something’s missing in Los Angeles. The nights swollen blue with busyness. Not animals, not smells, not shrieks across glowing pastures. Just bus rides, so many bus rides, and the dripping headache of the factory: sewing, folding, sewing, folding. There’s no room for ghosts in all the noise, all the machines. No spooks in alarm clocks and televisions and microwave ovens. Midnight never smiles or takes shapes and goes meddling in the barn, rousing the horses. Dawn comes before any ogres can take her away. No need to tie down the moon to keep the night from ending.
What am I?
Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies
Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,
Consequence;
Scientists can't find me.
Januswise I make us men;
Glamour
Was my image then—
Remind me:
The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…
Tick, Tock: Divine me.
-- Richard Kenney
