The Moya View



The ice in the gully

flowed over

the leafs boundaries

as clear and as

unconfined as light and

the water it always was,

a lick for

a thirsty dear

if not miles away,

ice almost alone

melting naturally

in the sun,

until a man

waking his dog

on a leash,

gazed on its

diamond reflection

interpreted in the

geometry of his eye

and confirmed in the

symmetry of his mind,

after his little dog

had pissed on it,

and clawed on it,

and the man’s heel

had shattered it and

mashed it to cubes,

way beyond the

the shattered shards

that could possibly

harm his world

and all the littler ones

he totally loved.

In the hardness

already starting to slush

back to its sun form

the man became thirsty,

and desired something

with ice in it,

cold hard ice cubes

tumbling from

a machine of cold,

his dear little home,

tidy and clean,

a short walk beyond,

even though he knew

in his very geometry

like he always knew

the ice would return

like it always

will return,

as snow falling,

lightly falling,

and icing his grave.





Leave a Reply

“The Kid Who Would Be King”: Taking England Back to Its Mythic Poetic Childish Self
Census of the Living and the Dead