Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

Archive

Volume 6 Number 1, April 2005

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All the Fallen Feathers Are Caught

by

Thomas Fortenberry



All the fallen feathers are caught
to soften the hardness of my need
for stony flesh or fleshly heart

as freed the tongue adjudges none
but those heinous, those glorious
and mercy, in my wrath, what do I heed?

These discarded flights of fancy
lifted up, drawn to me
know not what they have done

but I have them, own them, control them
so unlike the weather
or your mood, crashing
upon my shores, a storm surge
crying seagulls into the night:

I'm done, I'm Donne,
"Oh, my black Soule!"

I cannot take the pounding
surf, the overflow of sacred
blood cleansing original sin
black to white or dark to light

bursting like dawn upon my desire
whenever she breathes into my mouth
agape with awe, majesty, and wonder
-ing how to speak with flustered lips,

"moyst with one drop of thy blood, my dry soule,"

aches, burns, it hungrily yearns
for that which it cannot have:

Oh, my immortality!