Contact James McGonigal
Seeing the Light
of aurora borealis bamboozlingly far south
last night as we drove to our evening class
under a sky the colour of blood oranges
that pulsed as if the fruit could fizz
through pith and rind and then inhale
again to perfect segments
as if a doctor’s hand had moved
under the flesh of air to turn
the unsuspecting foetus of a star.
A brightness where the pain of many prayers
was anchored. The Firth of Forth opened
and closed its mouth at this orange walk
across the sky beyond the high flats—
where folk like us, housekeeping in infinity
tapped out their codes, tapped out and in
their testament of clothed or naked lights.
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