I’ve been reduced to life, specifically
to a human shape
I can say I want
to watch the sun like a hawk or a falcon or an astronomer
toward solar shores breaking the system
with ten or five bare
fingers treading the steps
of the air like a doctor or a lawyer or a carpenter,
to the initial pinnacle of the sky,
as a falcon,
like a telescope removing itself
from an eye, turns back, trying to decide
who I’ve become,
and settles on
my gloved wrist.
For months, I haven’t seen a sunset.
For months, I’ve seen the sun
begin to fall. A horizon
hovers over this womb
with its nine moons
eight fingernails, mine
if the sun sees me
sink or swoon.
I know, already, what it means to ascend
nonbeing. Rubbing into, just
that simple idea,
engenders salt water and cracked lips,
yet simply slipping
on a patch of ice presupposes caution,
the motion of evasion.
This womb must go down past the depth
from which it rose,
and if I desire to see, within
the sun’s cycle,
or a cyclamen,
must go without me.
Douglas Nordfors has published two books of poetry: Auras (2008), and The Fate Motif (2013), both with Plain View Press. Recent journal publications include Burnside Review, Chariton Review, The Hollins Critic, and The Louisville Review.