Detour

Worms eat the belly and freshen the soil

To reconcile, to breed blooming flowers,

And call them a masterpiece—

This is tramping in God’s garden.

Sensible, though it is, to say she has spoken,

An echo sublime, a material reflection,

The path into her muffles into darkness—

Not this way. Not in the brambles.

Terror and folly, awe and mystery

Choke the spirit of searchers,

Their counsel tangled in time,

In the depth of undiscovered stretches.

Here we turn. Here we take the byway.

Leave the wood, leave the peaks, leave the beaches,

Return to the tongues of men and of angels,

Return to the temple of the prostrate self.

Lest the image become the object,

Lest we return again to whispering horns,

Or we wander in dimness of words

And swallow the wormwood within the honey.

—

Caleb Coy is a freelance editor with a Masters in English from Virginia Tech. He lives in Christiansburg, VA with his wife and two sons. His work has appeared in The Common, Stonecoast Review, and Harpur Palate.