Sibyl

          beautiful,
           she speaks but means the opposite, so gestures,
         speaks in her native Spanish—
      this, she said (cataracts of tears, the frigid cold,
             the vague idea of death denatured of its criminality)
   predates the white winged angels’ downfall, and the vision which
    she saw, the house of fire; the choir’s revival—
        this is our simulation, our heartstring’s serpent searching
and the billowing cedar tops toppling after all.
      nude and
   before the bathroom mirror, I recall a familiar dream figure jest,
       is the proper p[a]lace
          of opaque secrets
               and their sibyls

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

$1.00

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