As witnessed through venetian blinds
____________________________________

Strange breezes, faulty branches, an occasional gift
of ice, weighty. We live in frailty. Not much like pine

needles, named after a familiar sting, a dangerous
bristling. I think of god in tiny objects or large. Functional

but barely functioning. Cushions, for instance,
on this couch are not god, but the crimson and gold-green stripes

could be. Some are violent, and violet. Thousands of cells
suspended over earth, inappropriate and minute. Sometimes

we exist. A girl with a thumb pressed ever so gently
against her nose. A pause. A singular nod.

From South of Here by Lydia Melvin

New Issues Poetry & Prose, Western Michigan University, Dept. of English,
1903 W. Michigan Ave., Kalamazoo, MI 49008-5331

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