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Rods and Cones


by Dennis Mahagin


A God with no 
sentience; heaven 
by increments 
in the here 
now repeating 
dawn's pink 
halo in a blink  
gone ... wash it 
out with Tang like 
the astronauts 
drink. 

Sins with no visible 
imprints nor constituents
like miracles in the 
darkroom, 
isotopes via vacuum, 
morphine, saline
drip on the lip 
of the stab 
wound

cornea, a shape 

we're in at 
carnival time 
down the Jersey 
shore, holograms 
and kaleidoscope 
prizes for sticking 
the arrowhead 
inside a spinning 
jenny of neon, ticking 
her pawl on the ever 
lasting wheel, 
and all the pandas 
with button eyes 
look real.

Search the church 
bells that never 
"pealed" per se, 
only saved your 
will to live, to see 
light another 
day; they spoke 
in a way that 

woke you 

up ... hello?
we heard an angel 
say, stripped 
to her very ocular 
nerves, then 
screaming 
not by rote, 
nor mote, but a 
simple beam, 
a ray.

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