Bump, Set, Spike
Someone volleyed the moon
above a distant net. Intuitively
knees bent, ready, as learned
in gymnasium days.
Rising hands aim at delay
of conscious rays, adding
few minutes to golden
hours. Pause, rewind. Replay
Slow motion approaching of toes
whisking sands to volcanic flash.
Athletic memory melts
horizons behind the eye.
Somebody serves the moon
illumination. I leave
fingertips of playful trees grazing
games that should have been.
Copyright © by Kevan Copeland
Amoral Ice
Avalanche! From the inverted
cup to a querying
face. The vertex
observes an unbroken
focus, ignoring abuse
from querulous cubes. Fingers
twist a cold telescope
probing Arctic altitudes—
streaming a floe
past enamel, now Andromeda
dropping—the esophageal
pull. The infusion of cool
moves the skeleton
to eject a wintry “Ah!”:
opening intergalactic
gush. Here, imbibing
among the stirring
of planets, the atmosphere is fresh.
Copyright © by Kevan Copeland
Seagull Attack
Suddenly, something went
for the head, and I
turned German
Expressionist, elongated
and aged in a vicious splatter
of American Abstract.
Through swoops, batter
and blur, I saw claws
scratch and extract
thick pigments, interrupting
watercolour assumptions
in my innocuous walk.
I think, observing
in furious whites
and occasional yellow
frenzies of angle and edge,
was a visionary eye
crafting something undone.
Now the physician is finishing
the image with pointillist
tracks, splashing tetanus
vaccine through avenues and cracks;
and as representation, when I am seen
I am more accurate than I have been.
Copyright © by Kevan Copeland
kevancopeland.com 