Soap bubbles the size of
silent whales
float and founder
from the wand of the prophet.

Over and under,
rippling in the swells of air,
they roll and surge,

at play until the pop
that pulls them like a sentence
back inside the lead.

The prophet writes again:

in each smooth behemoth
a plea for captives
to lay aside their grit
and wake to undulating

magic, fire-filled
aurora of our lives,
all the sunset blue and blazing
smoke and shattered
at a breath.

He knows how beauty breaks,
distends, expands, becomes the lens
through which we see ourselves
refracted, sudden,

then written on the morning
once again. He sees how love
renews, soft giant,
tender mercy,

so we follow, drawn
for seconds
as for years.