Gerry Boyd

When the Sun Arcs Low at Dawn

cherry pie scales of coloratura scent drift lightly

white across gleaming uplifted patinas of sound

and rhythm cannot exit so quickly across deer

skin stretched taut against pale December skies

of cirrus and crystal ice that brush near heaven

with vertebrae scales sky stiff frozen high in azure

canvases chiaroscuro field and ground blanched

to spin a colorless globe with blue focus glowing

on Ionic foothills whose spiny bones revel under

the leafless supplication of grey trees that reach

for a god that is half-moon hidden behind fiction

that arises in bored parchment dried to reaching

so far too far when the sun arcs low at dawn

Gerry Boyd lives in New Jersey and enjoys 'messing around with words'.