Art and poetry on page and stage

gift box


Jeffrey Cyphers Wright


I would wear a mantle of blue,

A merlin perched on my arm.

I’d coat the air with oaths

Hunting down your breath

As you gather moon-leaf powder

To dust the stars’ spurs with.

You are hard to hold onto.

You burn out of control out west.

You whistle over a bottle’s lip.

The trees on South Mountain all

Know your name. They say it

Only when you come around.

At last, it is almost now again.

You herd cries of the unheard.