Artifact
If you were gone, I would be brittle ice, a
thin globe of glass surrounding filaments
incandescent, aging bone absent calcium, a
mere artifact you had dipped into liquid
nitrogen and struck, your arm swinging
back and high above your head: the sudden
hammer blow of your leaving.
Just one sample of the lyrical, moving poetry by Roy Beckemeyer that fills this, his 4th book of poems. The words roll around in your mouth tasting of memory, of the mysteries of nature, of relationships.
