These Disturbed Pentacostal Mornings

By Matthew Kenneth Kosak

A glint of it, emerging from some ordinary circumstances.
Perhaps it is only a bird perched on a bare branch beneath gray skies in early March.
(A cloud.) A tattered sheet of a rag; water stained and caught by its corner on the tip of a distant peak.

And stroll through these pleasures, unfolding; headlong, unflinchingly.
There is nothing here to presume.
The matter at hand, is unchanged by it.
The vagaries of decision are not yet a substance, not yet formed in the nascent will of the unborn sun.
(Something is lying, a seed cloud ‘neath haystacks, hovering in the moist breath, a roiling sea washes forth to bite your feet. Hissing in retreat.)

I have seen them, these disturbed, pentacostal mornings,
when in the backdrop to a road, to a silent street,
a painting flew out a window
And was ripped to shreds,
the color bleeding, melting.

You have stirred me in a lifetime spanned of hours.
Met my oblivion, removed it from me with your surgery, an avuncular glance.
I did not wake you as I left,
The man at the cafe (you mentioned before) I think might be your dream, the coffee too in his hand..coming like a force towards you..
The cream, the white shirt off his back
Stirred now, to wet your lips.

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