"A Cheiff Ladye of Pomeiooc" by Jon Thompson

winter 2005 vol. 57 no. 1

The mark of the day is the
Susurrus of mottled clouds        swiftly moving
Beyond the frame they pile up
All motion riverrunning to ranges

Of big white peaks that
Dissolve
Into the motion that became them.
Their fastness is the sweetness of death beyond them.

Trapped in the gyroscope’s spinning motion
The globe almost touches the sky
The doll of the world in the hand
Of the girl who’s never known a scepter.

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 © 2005 The Carolina Quarterly