Terry Wolverton
Paradox
In the midst of singing is silence,
small gaps of breath. The billowed lung soon
empties of its air. Every thing
contains its opposite: Love changes
its blouse to emerge as loathing; good
fortune shrivels to despair. That star
we yearn toward is the radiance
we fear. Haunted by what we´ve escaped,
we cling to overstuffed suitcases
that open to reveal the void
we carry everywhere. Shadow
can´t survive without the sun´s bright beam,
and death holds life in its coat pocket,
fingers stroke it like a lucky charm.
