Questioning the Ephemeral
Pine-perched and lonely, a crow struggles to speak.
It fled from some murder; of this will you speak?
A train slithers in darkness, schedule unknown.
Is the discourse of time a language few speak?
Listen: the cadence of wind sifts through the trees.
Is the purple-blue sky too breathless to speak?
Night becomes morning; the ritual begins.
Will the sun stay silent while mist and dew speak?
Believers who await a second coming:
can our broken bodies begin anew? Speak.
The ones who inherit the earth are not meek.
Does it go to those who move mountains, who speak?
Why do volatile stars bear name ancient Greek?
And Andrew does, too, if his words are truespeak.
In light swiftly born, your breath is morning steam.
What becomes of it, you tend to wonder. Steam.
How quickly our tears desiccate in the heat;
saltwater molecules torn asunder—steam.
In my stovetop pot, I boil memories,
lift the lid early, it burns; my blunder, steam.
Describe the world that we have built—electric.
Our hearts emit storms of lightning, thunder, steam.
Mobbed with melodies from sirens on the sea,
somewhere high above the water, under steam.
Andrew Alexander Mobbs is a native of Little Rock, AR. In 2013, he released his debut poetry collection, Strangers and Pilgrims (Six Gallery Press). His poems have also appeared in Deep South Magazine; New Plains Review; Ghost Ocean Magazine; Calliope; The Montucky Review; The Round; and elsewhere. He was a 2014 Pushcart Prize nominee, and he co-founded and co-edits Nude Bruce Review, a nonprofit online literary magazine. He currently lives in Flagstaff, AZ.