The mountain invites the lightning to pierce its face
and the body was made to be plowed with the tongue.
I can’t help but press my chest
against the green blade of your name
that cuts a path through the day’s walls
to the silence that accompanies blood and blue
and the horizons in the horizon of our newborn breath.
© Robert S. Pesich, all rights reserved. This poem first appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Vol.11 No.1, Spring, 2005