Richard K. Kent

Chalice

 

 

Nightfall—the sky's last

bit of color cloaked, hidden.

On the street, the intermittent

hoarse rush of traffic; another

ambulance, wailing, coming closer.

Faraway starquakes I cannot hear.

       

Sitting.

 

Just sitting

 

to recall the self—

and then forget it,

its folly, wondrous folly,

the body drinking from the fragile

chalice of the breath

rising, falling,

 

unpossessable as chalice,

as breath.

 

Nimble mimicry.

An empty stage

where the mind,

miming, drinks.

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