The Third Lesson
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

I have a place in the air. My liminal life
rarely asks how. Marked by depressions,
it is safe to say my soul follows angles of separation,

and what aliveness I have slopes inwards. Beyond
the look of the world, and the vastness of the sea,
I still search for stages of widening.

The great imaginer has stopped wanting
to be known. Trapped in a circle of sorrow
the midnight sun has some to rest in tendrils of smoke.

The felling wedge is driven, and the third lesson
is the one about free thinking being surrounded
by devils.

The night metabolizes the light, and I sleep
it all away. There are eight million strikes of lightning
a day, and each one eaten by the ground.