MUSED
BellaOnline Literary Review
Tampa Bay Sunset by Lisa Shea

Table of Contents

Poetry


On A July Day

John Grey

So much summer:
the oak bucket swinging,
the whirl of a dogīs coat after a pool dip.
And so much morning,
at our feet, and light so deep, unwavering,
I have to hold my breath to see.
There is no dark,
just the clip of sneakers on the sidewalk,
the bright chrome rim of wheels,
the cardinalīs ascent into the trees
like a solo reclaimed by its orchestra.
There is no mourning in such ceaseless life,
no decay when even the buds have buds.
Itīs a believing-in-the-prospects day.
Itīs a protection by sky and grass
and hills where kids slide down on cardboard,
parks where a soaring ball focuses the faces,
fields where balloons humor breeze,
a flock of drunken pigeons suddenly sober into flight.
Weīve dodged doom and its nightmare bedfellows.
Weīve scraped the rust from our eyes,
the rot from our hearts.
We run straight and hard like itīs a circle and easy,
as if no one can fall out of this,
not while thereīs a rhythm and a pace
we all keep up with.
Itīs the summer of the widening spell,
of language spliced with "Wowī"s,
of leaves and horses, eidolon and aerie,
something in us like itīs shining on us,
something let go like itīs bound to never leave,




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