The Tungsten Air-Ball

the Tungsten Air-Ball scales the wolds
it is seen from houses beyond the moor—
in the village men drop shovels,
climb tractors, shield their eyes
above the roosts and look without believing

they point and cry the name that recalls
welding, wolfram,
round white lightbulbs,
but it is none of these—
it flashes as it turns, a jewel
of unthinkable purity,
an element that shudders

in the emptiness to steel and stare
through limpid, airborne eyes—
that made the journey through
thought merely and emerged in
mid-england earth-time daylight.

its colours are impossible,
some have said,
that mimic effervescence as it
morphs and makes its way along—
it came from nothing, will
return, unfolding, undulating
back to some simpleton’s ellipsis

it is thought in pure form—
the Tungsten Air-Ball—
and shimmers, shines,
streams through winds too cold
to shoulder by the skylarks,

And now it dips quickly to presage,
the priest asserts,
Christ’s return,
flashes blue, auburn, emerald,
then the bright flying jewel,
the alien’s gazing eye

yields itself to disbelief and dissolves—
a tenuous, blue-grey, rheumy snowdrop,
a thing returning always in the way of
déjà vu—unexpected,

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio




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