{ Carl Phillips: Armed, Luminous. }

[delga]

Armed, Luminous
by Carl Phillips

About sacrifice, I am not
so sure now. A river falls or rises
according to what leaves

or enters it.
But sacrifice is not the river. Compassion
is not what leaves. For what enters,

I have many names - I'd decide if I could,
if I were meant to. There's an instinct
that is rare but does occur in humans,

the ones who themselves feel
no different - it's any hour,
forgettable - as they turn toward the work

whose power will break them
eventually, and make their name.
I turn everywhere,

I see shapes by which
a holiness declares itself more
and more, as if to be noticed

were all it wants of me. The body,
for example, in a cloud
of mayflies stalled briefly in a light

that passes: now the moon -
now the stars appearing, choir-like,
with a choir's tendency to make

the soloist at once seem lonelier,
and more complete. I'm not reckless.
I'd comply, if I could. In dream,

there's a choice: precious freight,
or the barge that carries it,
or the water without which a barge

can at first seem nothing. I choose the water,
I choose with a wisdom that looks effortless
because it is. It's that kind of dream.