Jonathan Van De Loo
Here the sun reaches out its tendrils
To catch the ice which hangs, off of tree line
And roof above, as though a tear.
Fragments are cradled with orange-amber light.
Direct eye contact would not be recommended.
More thorough attention should be paid in observation of
Effects on the world around. The way the dense gray clouds
Become lined with red, the way the Earth itself
Calls out in reception of rays set to stun. Gravel,
Ice, and stone glitter with fervor beneath boots.
These are the magical things,
The wondrous things, the compositions of
Traces of thought, serpentine sifters
Through synapses, fashion of memory. To recall them is to
Live once again in the hold of the head
As it faces the left backseat car window,
Hoodie hood pulled up,
Hands stuffed inside jean pockets.
A frame of distant skyline painted with factory steam and
Twinkly office lights. The splendor of
December at 5:30pm. The gaze sits gripped.
Tears cascade, press, and quiver in the eyes with the wish
To be caught, to be consumed, to be modified equally by that light.
Jonathan Van De Loo hails from Albany, New York. He is a lover of breakfast food, puppies, and Rihanna.
