Armed, Luminous

About sacrifice, I am not

so sure now. A river falls or rises

according to what leaves

or enters it.

But sacrifice is not the river. Compassion

is not what leaves. For what enters,

I have many names - I’d decide if I could,

if I were meant to. There’s an instinct

that is rare but does occur in humans,

the ones who themselves feel

no different - it’s any hour,

forgettable - as they turn toward the work

whose power will break them

eventually, and make their name.

I turn everywhere,

I see shapes by which

a holiness declares itself more

and more, as if to be noticed

were all it wants of me. The body,

for example, in a cloud

of mayflies stalled briefly in a light

that passes: now the moon -

now the stars appearing, choir-like,

with a choir’s tendency to make

the soloist at once seem lonelier,

and more complete. I’m not reckless.

I’d comply, if I could. In dream,

there’s a choice: precious freight,

or the barge that carries it,

or the water without which a barge

can at first seem nothing. I choose the water,

I choose with a wisdom that looks effortless

because it is. It’s that kind of dream.

--Carl Phillips