Poem: "There is no quantification of smallest powers which propel."

A Territory of the Miracle

Cool the crude map
fired in your dark palm. 

Slip around 1 corner,
then 2, 3, next
4. 4 corners squaring off
with Fate: It’s a start.
(Times x, a lifetime.) 

Now a dusty path to
green sorrow growing shoots.
Stop short of the bog.
A shape will approach,
reach for, comfort,
your weeping hand.

That outshining ray of
sun with tumbled motes,
spinning cities—
take the keys—
incorporeal shrines glinting,
imbuing strength
to leave the haze.

A territory of the miracle. 
There is no quantification
of smallest powers
which propel. 

Sarah Sarai. First published in Fringe, issue 26. All issues archived courtesy of Sundress Publications.