R L Swihart — The Monarch Review

Poetry

I. Ominous and empty and then glorious and emptyÂ

After (as though brushing past her in the dark) Ingeborg Bachmann Here heaven (not sky) has taken another bite from a crisp apple

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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