The Blakean Sky

For days on end 
I stood beneath dense clouds.

Detached beards of martyrs 
and prophets—hoary whirlpools 

portending wrathful silence.
Saints, hermits, ghost-penitents 

notorious for their cavernous hoods, 
staffs, rods and crooks—

bearers of cornstalks and lightning bolts 
that suture the air 

above the dung-scent fields. 
I watched, waited

for a portal of high sapphire to form 
an inverted well and call me 

to launch myself through 
its eye, unblinking.

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Peter Marcus | Clouds and the White Arms of Compassion
Contents | Mudlark No. 55 (2014)