Casimir Wojciech

p o e t r y


1,000 monarchs contend with gravity.

Voices need fire.

A crossing hawk unfolds the sky.

The whole world passed beside me.


It began to rain & someone said

my prayers are soluble. Patience



Into transience, alone, this decadence expires.


At the beginning of tongues where

spirits abjure innocence—

in the stomach where

voices are measured their suspicions,

memory's shrapnel brushes

dust from the jewel of salvation


: all conditioned things are impermanent.

A votive rite. A light. A synchrony of passing.





I am thinking

of a universe stilled

Omnistillness  heaven-faced stillness

Stillness of clouds, stars, worlds

Stillness of damp oscillating atoms

Stillness in the eyes, in the blood, in the mind


Of decomposed calculations

prophesying a return

Of momentous storms

teeming beneath the skull

unfolding from the locus of control

fixed upon contemplation


I am thinking

of something that will save

me from myself


Into the void

this kaleidoscopic exaltation

("belief is for marks!")

A formulaic adjustment—

the dance of expiration


within vast expanses of

grandeur and consequence





Into the air in sheets of rain

spectres of fish eyes flaunt &

flit about, myriads of them sweat out

unknown dreams under a carnivorous sun.


An insurrection of falling stars. Come to

the altar of arroyos opening palms.


The body of Christ. A silhouette of

desert hunger rabid with city lights.

The blood of Christ. A northern wind

drips from the mouth of an owl in flight.


Smoke moves around palming the air like a Buddha

praying in the street. This desert is my brother,

to know what I have come alive by reverence.

And the moon to the west hums in the highest through the night.

Casimir Wojciech is from the Bay Area, CA and now resides in the Sonoran Desert. He edits Silver Pinion

© 2018 by Azia Archer

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