Disclosing the Miraculous

by Bruce Boston

Drinking cherry black wine
on a hot and humid night,
a raconteur of the fantastic
stumbles onto the shore
of your being.

Alien and irresistible,
he talks and
you listen long
into the cherry black night
to his singular tales.

Across the woods
you can hear the sirens
calling with clockwork minds.

Across the fields
you can see the moon
sliding beneath
the mountains.

For days afterward
unnamed appetites
haunt your
sleepy afternoons.

A rain of petals
from a tree without
blossoms falls
where you are sitting.

Appeared in my collection Artifacts (Independent Legions, 2018)