by Afric McGlinchey
The old philosopher is sharp as ice in winter,
fracturing all the wicked weights,
the resonance of his voice, lacerating
so-called safe spaces,
until they are ripped and sewn again,
upright as trees.
His words are gateways to the sublime,
conflating human agency
with the natural order, the body
of shared memory with the vanished sign.
There should be flowers, he tells us
in a clear-cut voice, simple as ink.
Every night, his teachings turn to the blue
laws, or stallions
or the book of hours. Come dawn,
he reaches the double zero
in a landscape of confession – luminous
and ferocious, divine and apocalyptic,
inviting invocation and resistance
to those overpouring
toward war – that avenue
lined with little lamps of snow.