Poetry Issue 24


Patrick Pritchett

Dysorphic Song

Song, they say, reincarnates an hour.
               A carnal prayer in the shape
of a sonnet spelling out
the brief abundance we long
               to drown in.

No tether. No nowhere, either.
Only the lilt and slant
               of song poured till
the throat opens out and
               grace equals abandon.
               You, love,
reappearing inside
               its endless meandering waver.

Take out from this welter
some small cup—some slop of
               music careening.
Take out of this wind
               & out of stone &
               out of curve of sky
& from this curving bone
the bent notes of dysorphic song
               gone wrong
yet still alive.

Because song makes no amends.
Offers no atonement.
It is simply song, cresting then
               spilling over.
A tune, a tone, a voice raised
in the dark against vanishing.
True names crooning amen
from the lore for disconsolate living.