Leveler Poetry Journal
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Not a Chance Encounter


What that Chinese cook said to Dogen in the year 1223:

“Nothing in this universe can ever be concealed.”


Don’t look, the sun makes you blind

unless you’re already blind from looking.

A poster bleeds the word red onto a wall.


A road going round a giant hill.

So many cranes feathered the sky,

their voices were trembling waves on a river.


The sun blinded by the shadow of the world,

the splendor of its rim, a child’s hat in the mud,

an avalanche burying a mountain town.


She dropped a knife on the kitchen floor

and streetlights, the endless teeth of a city,

started to devour the night.


Eyes and hands and thoughts born from a vast fire.

A sniper learning how to count.

Words crawling across his kill.


An old Bible flapping in the back yard.

A blue house without a door.

A rain storm scratching at the horizon.


Memory builds a nest full of eclipses

and spiders hatch knowing how to spin webs.

A sandwich falls from a swaying girder.


Scientists are running in a pack,

their hands growling.

telescopes chasing them toward the sea.


The sun desires to be seen.

Why else would it spend so much time

shining in the brittle sky?


A young man stands shirtless by a window,

a red balloon caught in a tree.

An ambulance has crushed a car.


To see the sun is waking up.

First, the eyes have to be dragged out of the grave

like fish afraid of drowning.


Nothing moves faster than firelight.

Bodies of ash walk about, waiting for the wind.

Waking up is doom’s devotion.

Glenn Halak