Between the hands
Between the Hands
by Greg Foster
migraine swings across your personal sky
shedding its hot tail
and perhaps it will split and permit breath
like the pale rouge comet of Biela
softening into silence
the pulse of orbit slackens
like a stroke of music from the pedlar’s radio
as he rolls through the village
round the arc of his path
and down the arid hill
eyes closed in the dark
you have played it through to the end
and prepare to rise
to face the sun
and fall into the hands of the sea
the closer you come to the source
the more this aching ball
must waste and spill
itself in intervals
between the hands of planets
you know, this is actually quite blissful. i know its about a headache, but it flows so nicely and has such soft sounds in it. makes me sleepy.
i bet that it would make a headache go away if it was spoken by a soft, mellow toned, soothing voice. (i have a voice like that. my friends used to beg me to set up their voicemail and leave the outgoing message) anyway, one could meditate on the words that describe how one rides the pain through the galaxy and arcs across skies, dripping sparks, till it is quenched in the sea. how gorgeous.
i’m going to save a copy of it and say it to my husband that way. see what happens. i’ll have to try and memorize it so i don’t “read” it to him.