Mighty Slight

1

We count three though not to three.

Only that there are three,

and no two 

or one without.

And so, no less:

there are thing 

and thing

and what they aren’t.

The self is merely

the face.

The face to a heap.

2

Mother sang Seven Year Ache.

Said, "Say God."

Ever is the color of my true lover's hair

that color of straw, aging, fading.

Our voices echo,

each others' wounds licked.

Low grit sandpaper tongue stung.

Said, "God." 

Fruit bare,

better for it.

3

Not but knee-high to a cockroach,

I've seen what could be considered colossal.

Screen only showed impressions of color:

forest for the trees, or sea for the shores.

Or for the shells.

Or the angel for its wings, beating wind

afloat, above, in abeyance.

Many winged wheel at this arrested moment

dwarfs me;

each beat bit of wind defies me to stay put.

Ed Halliday is a musician, poet and event organizer in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; originally from Seattle, Washington. He facilities music, poetry and comedy events out of the basement at Last Drop Cafe and has hosted reading series such as Sick Fuckfest, LITerally Underground, Thought Clearly and an ongoing live-scored series at Philadelphia's Free Library out of the Parkway branch.