Unexpected Visitors

1 Minute Read Time

This black and white photograph shows a brick house with a door, window, bike, and other things that are seen in the photograph.
Photo by Haberdoedas on Unsplash
                                                        after “The Guest House” by Rumi
The moon is nothing 
but a circular ghost
backlit, just disappearing
beyond the roofs, beneath which
an arm brushes an arm, skin
sheds its light so thinly we forget
we can see

And in our room, sleep
on the brink of extinction, sheep
out to pasture; their small black eyes
blink night away

How we fit neatly into our bed,
studious slumber

Then the lamplighter lights the one lamp
on the fifth planet, smallest
of them all, and meaning is electric; we prepare ourselves
to snuff out the stars,
the flowers:

This being human
is a guest house

I welcome you, morning
air, one-two-three

The sun, a fire-field, begs in
at our window

I’ll bring you those moon flowers,
a blind but gentle sheep, a single
living star

Read more from Issue 16.2.

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