Nightsong on the pastures
let your eyes trace the holy spectacle that is the work of man.
that is the work of the worms that eat man
and the fear that they inspire.
with all of this, we don’t need instruction manuals
we don’t need burning bushes
we don’t need dawn!
in the river that snakes along
the four-lane highway to the airport, packed and bustling with rot
stadium lights from a high school baseball game
reflect and look like stars, the water trembles
the weight is too heavy, screams and hand-clap songs
and the way that we’ve finally managed to beat out the moon.
I want, for a moment, to see what would happen
if I sat on my knees in the damp shrapnel-gravel
bringing mouthfuls of the black and iridescent water to my lips
as the road above me sinks into the sea
metal horses at play, suddenly
all rushing to drink beside my form, we herald new ages
as the pastures full of angels, the ones, you know
that grow on bushes instead of trees
scratching at their bulbs, churning with fragrance,
they find themselves under a humid summer rain
which they drink in to themselves politely.
off to cross the set of cracked wooden planks that sound like divinity
or just like an empty parking lot —
who cares, watch them head to the fruit-market
where last week I bought a mango that was so unworldly and sweet.
Sylvan Lebrun is a student, writer, and musician living in Tokyo, Japan. Her work has been previously published in Up the Staircase Quarterly, CONSTRUCTION, The Hunger, and Shirley Magazine, among others.