The Fourth King
Sinéad Morrissey
They found me high
above the breathing canopy,
tightjacketed prodigy—
interstellar silence
laced through my hair
and frost like a tapestry
nailed to my door.
Such absolute dark
above my tippy-top
spangled crown,
ballooning sky-shot
Arctic greens draped
winter’s finest shawl
about my shoulders.
Unstable starship
of the planet,
your lungs are my fingers—
their feather-thin million
branching endings:
tiny-bright tiny-light
redeemers of air.
Spectacular child
in the barn, who fell
like a comet or windfall,
I also attend—
I also stand, in all
my pine-needle finery,
and shine.
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