A Celebration
by Georgia O'Keeffe


Clear Conscience What is your judge? Your obedience to the sky is so encumbering, like a bird with a broken wing. Is yours sun? Sun-slanted mornings at sea or is it shadows behind the stones earth's reply? There is no voice waiting to answer, no voice willing to teach you anything, just a box of grammar stuffed in the attic one after another, tick-tock, the fossils forgetting their age, rank, et cetera in the service of storage. Tell me what it's like spiraling what it's like crawling under stars.

Murray Moulding

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