Poetry: Christopher Lee Miles


I knelt on the flight deck, salt spray pelleting

my forehead. I fell into several worlds with the blow,

each an iron crib of questions patrolled by waltzing

wig-wearing marionettes. When I questioned them

they pointed toward the sun, said ligature. One crib

conducted an orchestra of squids playing Wagner

on intricate machines while ascending and descending

a steep set of chrome-coated stairs. Another was six

exact replicas of a city block: in each of them, sketches.

I dropped through many more, all indirect, all symbols

for the unconscious splints I knew the sea had sent.

That evening, while scrubbing the bilge with proof

and political leanings, I came to an unmolested thought:

I am the smallest particle, and I can move anywhere.


All rights reserved to Christopher Lee Miles.

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