The seam
            in the sky
            where the faces slip in
            through the soft spine of clouds.
You said
             Horizon.

             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.