Three Poems


Hillary Lyon

Sex Art Love
 
awakening springs from being caught
between three points -- and being pulled
three ways -- can never arrive
 
and so languishes between extremes:
a big sky, a conversation, a pigeon house
right around the corner --
 
even with all this walking and flying
(function of polarity and ornamental servitude)
still can't go high or far enough
 
 
 
 
Under Ideal Conditions
 
the train pummels its way
through circus tents through Mayan jungles
bench seats hard as pews
exterior paint fiesta red and gold
in the chug and hiss, you hear dark-eyed children sing
pipes and rods and wheels sweating,beading oil
 
your legs pump faster alongside
your breath steam -- your heart the coal furnace
the open door of the caboose
the easy sway of the lantern within
your hand so close to the rail
the vibrations sing through the fine bones
of your outstretched fingers
 
 
 
 
The White Moth
 
shuck your skin
let the beetles polish your bones -- hang them
out in the shining wind
 
here we make our own music
the blood hums, the stars trill
as they surface breaking all strings
 
open your mouth -- the white moth escapes
a glistening vibrato winging its way
through the backwoods of all silences