Arts + Scene » Poetry

Mad River, Mid-Morning



When the ghosts descend blindly

to feast on our living earth

what they leave behind

by mid-morning burns off, turns

to a white shiver the width

of a finger following the Braille

of our spines. No, that's not quite it:

river spirits can't read the mute wails

of our skin the way we can

and translate it into the ribbony mist

of comprehension. They'd need hands

to unravel the brittle air that twists

wildly in weak sun across the bay.

See what I see, they try and try to say.


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