Spriggan

She smokes more than language,
bottles more than gods.
A walk, leopardine,
imbibing juice crunched from marrow.

Where will she be if there is no more hurt?
Can you tell it is you whose happiness costs more than her being?

A dancer, balanced between evenings,
for a sprite feels the texture of what you call darkness.
And corrals wounds, shelving anguish,
to breathe the aroma of the world’s apologies.

On In Love

We cleaned an earth, foggy
with danger.

A thousand forms to clarify our love.
Followed by a sea of unlearning,
a massage as sweet as
calories.

For what reality is in Being
that is not
the terror
of love?

Please, Heights, arrest
those cynical warnings!

As free as one feels after hugging a devil,
But without the mouthful of chocolate.

Oh, we touch:
a shiver
as blue
as a breastbone.

Within clarity, fingertips on the lips of an orb.

Born in Austin, Will Pewitt now lives in Jacksonville where he teaches various courses such as global literature and intellectual history. His work in fiction, poetry, history, and philosophy has appeared in over a dozen journals. He can be reached at will.pewitt@gmail.com.