MOSES AND THE LITTLE FLOWER
A flower
in the desert –
frisked, light,
genuflecting –
purple-petaled,
wind-dawn caught,
but not that
curves
the consequence
of color.
Love, softly
hastened,
is
the emblem,
too,
of this
white-rimmed
lip.
A RELIC FROM BYZANTIUM
The sound and the flash does not desist—
where would it go?
Why were you concerned the lights would fade?
In the company of the Empress,
in your early days,
when you were the little hero,
and she stood on the balcony
and showed you the fireworks
(you, developing then your fascination with the crypts) —
was that when you began to think that
only at sixty-five, draped in your earned honors,
you’d finally have time to meet yourself?
The artisans turned finer and finer gold,
and worked their filigree,
and such fascinations are endless, as you know.
The firebird has long unsettled you—
spontaneous and traceless.
You’ve dreamt of riding the firebird.
You’ve dreamt of being the firebird.
Why, these past few years, have you also dreamt
of a woman you saw in the market once?
Bio:
Matthew DeLuca is a poet who lives in New York. He is a graduate of Fordham University School of Law.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 