Sight

That winter drift-trapped in the house,
learning the campfire of flesh and the endless
tether the mind ranges upon,
 
I came into the living room and saw
a glass jug suspended in the air, six feet clear
of the carpet, tipped. There were no wires,
 
no mirror tricks. The whole world hung
on whatever invisible hook or hand
was keeping it tilted, empty, gleaming.
 
I stepped towards it, as if in a dream. It fell
as the rain falls, suddenly out of
the sky’s indifference, and shattered at once.

 



© Frances Leviston
From PUBLIC DREAM