A Tented Space
Against Wind
devon Balwit
Angular, my soul lodges
in the bare bars of a jungle gym,
in a storm window set against fence slats.
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Its prism refracts
the day’s light, a tumblerful
of muddled clouds, of unspilled weather.
My soul unfolds
its tented space against wind.
Inside, I imagine myself invisible.
Curare-tipped, fletched, my
soul arcs through leaf shadow
trailing its hunter’s prayer, blood hungry.
Not complex, but a spare
unfolding, my soul adds itself
to its neighbors, extending its lone geometry.
After Erin O’Keefe, photograph