The Sun Comes Out
Sun tunneling through cloud
its monocular headlamp
emerging after a long caved in
rain, OK. Let’s start over.
Hit refresh. Is it true that you,
even you, a star, are burning gas
in the chambers of your heart?
A little squirt, a little spark, and it
all goes up in flames, smiling
flames. Flamboyant parade of red,
bright red tongues. Is it OK
if I identify instead with the smudged
cheek of cloud, the squished miner
going blind, coughing blood.
I’d rather be a handkerchief
tucked away in your breast pocket,
neatly pressed in the absurd
and awkward hope
to be offered, extended
toward blank: the lady? Maiden?
You fill in the blank.
The Shoulders of Rain
A breeze brushes off the shoulders
of trees, the shoulders I seize you by
in dreams, dream father, and raindrops
of the past rain fall in present tense.
It’s raining they tell my children
and my children tell me it’s raining
and underneath the trees it is but
elsewhere has stopped a while ago.
Soon it may start again. In gladness.
My wife and I, ready to stop having children,
are glad of the children we have.
The Little Things
Cloud-sequestered afternoon
deliberates on the little
things: a glass of mashed lemon
water, plucked rose of Sharon
blossom in the netted cup
holder of the folding chair,
the charm of heat, heavy
end of August. You’d think
the cicada would weary
of revving the engine of its dinky
little mower like that, the grasses
would get over the thrills of the wind,
and the steady trance of summer
would break but the appetite
is indefatigable. Our duty is only
to live. To ask again.
Cameron Morse (he, him) is Senior Reviews editor at Harbor Review and the author of eight collections of poetry. His first collection, Fall Risk, won Glass Lyre Press’s 2018 Best Book Award. His book of unrhymed sonnets, Sonnetizer, is forthcoming from Kelsay Books. He holds an MFA from the University of Kansas City-Missouri and lives in Independence, Missouri, with his wife Lili and three children. For more information, check out his Facebook page or website.
