hunting for transcendence, in poems
that ooze in thick golden drops of honey,
language distilled down to raw essence,
instead, I lie listening to the rusting clockwork
of old bones and the blood singing in my head,
listening to the preening of moth-wings,
the sound of a raindrop running down glass
hunting for transcendence, instead
I’m licking up notes off the street
eyes wild with pieces of deranged sky
in a goldenness that is less than light
more the final currency we can trust,
the quick sounds of shadow particles,
frogs, beetles and dragonflies
where the moon comes up dripping
from the bottom of the bay,
hunting for transcendence
we leave on a shaft on moonlight
while the sun shines continually
for two weeks and a day,
this is the gift of silver
we leave our children



Andrew Darlington
Illustration: Claire Palmer


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