Val Warner
Daisy Chain
Tears of an old, happy child
Smudged pictures, mossy
At a pool; the veined mirror
Healed, unlike a childish trinket.
This glass necklace in the dark
Sheds enough light over my eyes.
The tears will stop, burnt out.
Cotton wool perceptions, a quiet
Fever, surfaced at dawn, sniffing
As if after a gift of the poem.
Beads of sweat, in a flower’s calyx
Rain, and the slow intentions:
These are the chains we make ourselves,
The chains I want to make.
Page(s) 22
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