in the sky
where the faces slip in
through the soft spine of clouds.
Turned your face
from the storm
hunting lacewings in oysters.
Drawing fire from the blue – you
The likeness of a man, the hand of god
of a dragon, now a claw. Now you
know they touch.
And retreated to conjuring of everyday
spells – the Djinn in your bottle
pronounced stigma / stigmata.
Gossamer-ripe dandelion, still-birthed
in our bell curve; I said. Nothing
survives your sky unobserved.
Neil Flatman is an Alum of the Tin House summer workshop, The Community of Writers at Squaw Valley and Minnesota North Woods. He’s been published in print and on line at, among other, Ithaca Lit, Gnarled Oak and Literature Works.