Richard K. Kent
Writing | Photography
Selected poems from Ice Carver
Seven Kitchens Press, 2017
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.