Those rising gods of cloud, possum-belly
cream and white,
that roadkill brightness
(winnowed by rod & cone)
I take like tea: necessary
enactment of incarnation.
October’s not known for light—
no gold sluicing low over meadows,
stippling brooks, dappling fields
—what I noticed was no
miracle, just crepuscule
I can’t resist: dim, brief,
hammered flat from tin.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 3.
Michael Mercurio lives and writes in the Pioneer Valley of Massachusetts. His poetry has appeared in Palette Poetry, Sugar House Review, Rust + Moth, Crab Creek Review, and elsewhere, and his poetry criticism has been published by the Lily Poetry Review and Coal Hill Review.
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