Owen Lucas

Slumbering down the earthmouth
          Into jamming tunnels
Of coral tile and soaking breath
          (Where redolence
Is of cornfire and hot black pork)—
          Walking once again
Into the brother of a wide grave—;
          Watching the faces of
Those at platform-edge, watching
          The pallor, the jaundice
Overslid by the creeping headlights
          Of the local service;
Watching the rocket-lit path of the
          Carriages as they bruise,
Scraping into the locked enclosure;
          It is only natural
To tire and grow confused, to feel
          A softly growing urge to sleep,
The confusion of death and life,
          To know no body from a shell,
No syllable from its giving mouth,
          No sense from its sound.
It is nature in its pink-deepest mood,
          That place we rarely cross.

All in carriage,
          Little bodies and little tasks,
Rolling on, through incommodious
          Space, into places
Even vaguer: lanes of blush-mote,
Territories of xeno-species, where
          Rainbow carapaces dull
In orbswell of plunking southlights.
          At some stage the command-
Spirits will make their cameo:
          An iteration of us will reform.
But even there we may find only
          The same yellow threshold,
The same sweeping lightbeams—

Owen Lucas is a British writer living in Norwalk, Connecticut. His poetry, fiction, and translations have been published in more than fifty journals in the U.S., Britain, and Canada. He is an editor-at-large at Potluck Magazine. Look for new work in upcoming issues of Plume, Sakura Review, Really System, Monarch Review, Big Lucks and Tribe. For more: owenlucaspoems.com.