I watch the stars hide behind each other
and it's another beautiful day of sin in the world.

She opens the magazine and the seam bends,
the nails crawl like beetles across my back
and put my body to sleep,
the dark eyes swim in the room
free of her head.

There's nothing different than yesterday,
the harmony is laid over the chord like it's new,
better, the past, a rubber pickaxe bouncing
back into the moment with the weight
of yesterday behind it.

The secret between us is where the tongue rests,
the oxidation of enamel in the mouth,
night after long night and I want to wake
with the hands I know in my hair.

My skin sticks to itself in the humid air
and there are no texts to relieve the shock
of finding my own body on the doorstep,
music doesn't relive the storm,
it puts the body in touch with the wind.

In the open mouth of the night,
the thought crawls out of the muscle,
my heart beat, a heavy rain
in the kettle of my chest.
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Black-and-white head shot of Charles Wright
Mary Szybist on Charles Wright

"The monk Thomas Merton claimed to have no method of prayer; 'quiet down and then it happens,' he used to say. I don’t claim to understand it, the peculiar power of Charles Wright’s poems to suffuse me in their wonders, to quiet me down. Charles has taught me better than to call this prayer. I’d rather let the synapse spark."

via LIT HUB
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Image of the cover of Marjorie Welish's book, The Windows Flew Open
What Sparks Poetry:
Prageeta Sharma on Marjorie Welish's "Some Street Cries"

“In Welish’s work I saw an embrace of the most wild, abstract and observational in Stevens, informed with her renewed freshness in constructing the image and its possible abstract correlative. She creates her own set of notes in her poems. Her book The Windows Flew Open broadened my universe of what the poem could be and hold as its subject: a language fueled from living in the mind."
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