Poetry: From the May/June 2009 issue | See all poetry
Possible Psalm
When I saw light the sculptor chiseling sheer bluff
from slope—the punk wood landing as shadow
in down-mountain saddles, a coarse grit teasing out
the basalt’s facelike features, then finer grains
crazing the air with duff—
I said aloud good light: as if it were dog or obedient
child, as if there were some other kind. As if it had not by then
vanished into that antipodal room, the work shrouded in dark sheet.
